jT__h~jfc-. 


REESE  LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


•/\Y,  <•;«'./ 


* 


COZEN  ZA, 


A  TALE  OF  ITALY, 


AND 


OTHEE   POEMS. 


BY  MRS.  N.  FUBLONG. 


ILLUSTRATED      EDITION 


SAN    FKANCISCO: 

PRINTED   BY  B.    F.    STEEETT,  532   CLAY   STREET. 

1880. 


(*!  3-CO 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1880,  by 

MRS.  N.  FURLONG, 
In  the  oflBLce  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


INDEX. 


PAGE. 

PREFACE  ...................................................     13 

ANNOUNCEMENT  ............................................     14 

INVOCATION  ...............................   ................     17 

COZENZA,  A  TALE  OF  ITALY  ..........  .......................     19 

NONNENWERTH,  A  LEGEND  OF  THE  RHINE  ....................  133 

WHERE  SHE  SLEEPS  IN  SANTA  CLARA  .......................  225 

ET  ELLE  EST  MUETTE  .......................................  226 

REMEMBRANCE  ............................................  227 

AN  ANSWER  ..............................  ................  228 

LAMENT  OF  LEOXORA  D'EsTE  ...............................  229 

STAR  OF  THE  SEA.  .    .................    ....................  ,  242 

ALTSAT  BURN  ..............................................  243 

TORTESA   AND   MuRILLO  .....................................    250 

SISTER  MART  AGNES  ........................................  252 

A  PHILOSOPHIC  ASSURANCE  ..................................  254 

THE  "BKER  S\VILL"  .......................................  255 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


POBTBATT  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 

CASTLE  OF  OLETANO.  THE  LURLT. 

ABCH  OF  ROLANDSECK.  CONVENT  OF  NONNENWEBTH. 

THE  BRIDGE  ACROSS  THE  NAHE.        ALTSAY  BUBN. 


PREFACE. 


On  account  of  the  advertisements  to  the  two  larger 
poems  which  constitute  nearly  the  whole  of  this 
book, — together  with  the  numerous  notes  attached, 
explaining  so  much  of  the  subject,  there  is  little  left 
to  be  said  by  way  of  preface, — except  to  thank  the 
public,  and  a  numerous  list  of  subscribing  friends, 
for  the  favorable  acceptance  and  criticism  accorded 
the  first  edition  of  "  Nonnenwerth,"  and  to  hope  that 
in  the  Poem  of  "Cozenza,"  an  equally  desired  praise 
and  sustaining  influence  may  be  deserved,  and  ac 
corded.  It  has  become,  perhaps,  too  much  the  cus 
tom  of  authors  to  seem  to  depreciate  their  own 
efforts;  I  will  only  say  that  I  have  not  tried  to  "send 
forth  a  leaf  floating,"  or  "a  straw  on  the  wind,"  or 
any  thing  of  that  kind.  I  have  earnestly  tried  to 
please  my  dear  readers,  and  hope  they  will  think  so. 

MRS.  N.  FURLONG. 


ANNOUNCEMENT. 


This  Poem  is  partly  founded  on  the  story  of  a  Revolutionary 
Sicilian.  Some  of  the  Characters  are  real — others  fictitious.  Co- 
zenza,  the  principal  character,  becomes  the  leader  of  Revolutionists, 
in  obedience  to  the  wish  of  his  father,  who  suffered  death  at  the 
hands  of  the  reigning  Monarch.  Imbued  with  the  patriotism  of 
his  sire,  he  makes  heroic  efforts  to  achieve  the  Liberation  of  Italy. 
"While  engaged  in  battle,  he  is  wounded,  taken  prisoner,  and  con 
fined  in  Castell  d  Mare.  He  effects  his  escape,  but  dies  while  try 
ing  to  reach  the  mountains. 

Etolia,  a  young  lady  of  noble  family,  a  daughter  of  the  count  of 
Olevano,  is  made  the  wife  of  Cozenza  after  many  romantic  trials. 
At  the  beginning  of  the  Revolution,  she  retires  to  her  home  at 
Olevano.  Suspected  of  treason,  she  is  thrown  into  the  dungeons  of 
her  own  Castle,  by  the  secret  spies  of  the  King:  and,  refusing  to 
confess  the  complicity  of  her  husband  in  the  Revolution,  is  put  to 
death,  by  torture,  expiring  in  the  hands  of  her  persecutors. 

Salluzzi,  a  Captain  of  Bandits,  compelled  Cardinal  Capano,  whom 
he  had  taken  captive,  to  unite  in  marriage  Cozenza  and  Etolia  in 
the  Robber's  cave  where  Cozenza  had  accidentally  met  his  betroth 
ed.  Sttlluzzi  renounces  his  reckless  life,  and,  with  his  band  joins 
the  Liberators.  Concetta  Lavagnu,  the  wife  of  one  of  Salluzzi's 
men,  seeks  her  husband  on  the  field  of  battle  among  the  slain,  but 
finds  i'ozenza,  in  the  arms  of  death,  and  receives  his  last  words  of 
hope  and  despair.  Caldara,  a  patrio,t  priest,  while  alleviating  the 
poor,  gives  his  service  to  the  cause  of  Liberty. 

Morbiii,  Pontillo,  Del  Carretto,  Satriano,  Maniscalco,  and  others, 
are  secret  spies  of  the  King;  and,  by  machines  of  torture  exact 
confession  from  those  suspected  of  being  disloyal. 

Localities,  and  Historic  events  pertaining  to  the  Revolution  of 
1818,  are  carefully  detailed  from  authentic  sources. 


A   TALE    OF    ITALY 
A  POEM  IN  EIGHT  CANTOS. 


INVOCATION. 

Once  more,  sweet  Muse,   inspire  my  soul 
To  wake  the  Harp,  its  chords  control, 

And  pleasing  verse  unfold; 
Lend  me  the  voice  to  fill  my  song 
With  strains  as  pure,  if  not  so  strong, 

As  bards  have  sung  of  old. 

Let  fitting  thought,  in  verse  arise; 
Of  classic  lands,  ueath  sunny  skies, 

Made  sacred  by  the  lore, 
Which  grand  poetic  minds  have  cast 
Upon  the  record  of  the  past, 

Of  fair  Italians  shore. 

Then  swell  the  heart  to  feel  the  strain 
Of  simple  music,  which  has  lain 

Cold  in  the  breast  so  long; 
And  may  the  task  of  love  be  mine, 
Thy  tender  laurels  to  entwine, 

To  beautify  my  song. 


COZENZA 


A    TALE   OF    ITALY. 


I. 

?ROM  sweet  Palermo's  fruited  vales, 

To  Genoa's  white  moving  sails; 
Ravine  and  oak,  and  walnut  shade, 
And  clust'ring  vine  in  sylvan  glade, 
And  quaint,  receding  peasant  cots, 
That  rise  like  wings  from  hillside  grots — 
Are  scenes  that  claim  the  gifted  hand 
Of  magic  thought;  for,  scenes  more  grand, 
From  mountain  slope  to  ocean  strand, — 
Seek  not  beyond  this  classic  land. 
Here,  blood  of  murdered  Caesars  flowed; — 
Here,  Carthagenian  troopers  rode 
O'er  roadways  where  proud  armies  vast 
Swept  by  with  death  and  blighting  blast, 
And  left  defeat  to  mark  the  past. 
The  trampling  hoofs  of  Hannibal, 


20  COZENZA. 

No  passing  sounds  to-day  recall; 
And  wintry  floods,  a  thousand  times, 
Have  washed  the  crimson  fields  of  crimes. 
Here,  ruins  drenching  in  the  flood 
Of  ages,  now  not  stained  with  blood 
Of  tyrants;  and  the  wild  winds  brood 
In  sadness  where  some  fortress  stood — 
The  tyrant  hand,  the  martyred  faith, 
Alike,  devoted  spoils  of  Death. 

II. 

Coliseum,  crumbling  to  decay  ! 
What  shall  I  say  that  is  not  said: — 
Thy  multitudes  have  passed  away. 
Thy  bleeding  martyr,  and  the  gray 
Fierce  panther  that  upon  him  fed; 
And  thy  arena  to  the  night 
And  day  is  domeless,  roofless,  quite: 
And  where  the  busy  surging  throng 
Of  cities  waked  the  morn,  the  song 
Of  shepherd  swain  is  heard  among 
His  flocks,  as  though  the  restless  tongue 
Of  fame,  with  silver  harp  unstrung, 
Had  left  her  noblest  songs,  unsung. 
Where  now,  the  arm  of  valor  tried  ? 
Where  now,  the  ancient  halls  of  pride  ? 
Let  ruin  tell — the  only  guide. 

III. 

At  Cannae,  whose  historic  plain  j 
Saw  forty  thousand  Romans  slaia 
By  foreign  foe,  no  signs  remain 


A   TALE    OF    ITALY,  21 

Of  former  greatness;  and  in  vain, 
We  seek  the  dirty  lanes  of  noise, 
Old  dames,  and  ragged  beggar  boys 
So  idly  dreaming  time  away — 
Its  memory  scarcely  lives  to-day, 

IV. 

Along  Voltorno's  vale,  the  rain2 
And  sun,  still  fresh  the  growing  grain, 
And  ever  toiling  sleepless  bees, 
Go  laden  on  in  droning  hum; 
And  birds  of  song,  at  morning  come 
And  thrill  the  fruited  orange  trees, 

V. 

Gaeta  only  lives  in  name; 3 
And  were  it  not  for  Virgil  fame, 
A  passing  notice  could  not  claim; 
But,  here  the  antiquarians  trace 
The  lone,  neglected  burial-place 
Of  Eneas'  nurse — so  long  rank  grown 
With  thorn  and  weed — almost  unknown. 

VI. 

The  pavement  ways,  where  victors  led 
The  vanquished,  feel  no  more  the  tread 
Of  valor  ;  and,  where  chariots  sped, 
The  pleading  beggar  kneels  in  dread, 
Whose  courage  and  whose  hope  are  fled. 
Grand,  templed  roads  through  groves  of  shade, 
The  debt  of  cold  neglect  have  paid; 
Where  now  a  ride  through  dust  awaits 
Him  who  would  gain  Capua's  gates; 4 


22  COZENZA. 

VII. 

Near  by,  is  pointed  out,  to-day, 
The  spot  where  dark  assassins  lay, 
When  jealous  malice  rashly  made 
To  swiftly  fall  the  flashing  blade, — 
O  Rivalry!  thy  angry  glow 
So  caused  the  burning  stream  to  flow 
Bright,  from  the  heart  of  Cicero; 
Than  his,  no  truer  lips  were  dumb, 
When  carried  pale,  to  dreadiul  Borne, — 
Antony's  mandate  was  fulfilled;5 
And  sweetest  silver  tones  were  stilled. 

vm. 

Proud  cities  are  not  nature's  choice: 
Her  lavish  hand,  and  stirring  voice 
Are  seen  and  heard,  beyond  control 
Of  man,  who  fearless  gains  the  goal 
Of  power — to  lose  his  life — his  soul. 

IX. 

If  thou,  Campagna,  drear  and  lone  !6 
Shouldst  lend  this  theme  a  saddened  tone, 
Whose  wooden  crosses,  record  keep, 
Where  all  of  life,  and  love,  long  sleep; 
Thy  darkened  spirit's  legendry. 
In  ruins  of  antiquity, 
Majestic  desert  by  the  sea  .r 
Is  all,  now  left  to  time  of  thee. 

x. 

If,  from  the  Aventine's  crushed  dome,7 
Some  civic  leaves  of  laurel  come, 
Herein,  they're  neyvly  wreathed,  and  sweet, 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  23 

And  laid  along  the  pathless  way, 
By  such  child  hands  as  dropped  the  wheat, 
To  mark  where  they  were  carried  far; 
Nor  distant  road,  nor  sun,  nor  star, 
Had  any  signal  whence  they'd  come; 
Of  little  woodland  babes,  one  day, 
Such  tender  story  we  are  told, 
Long  after  their  own  lips  are  dumb; 
And  never,  meanings  sweet,  grow  old. 
The  red  feet  of  the  Sylvan  doves 
That  lit,  and  flew,  and  lit  again; 
That  lit,  and  flew,  and  picked  the  grain, 
And  left  no  speck  where  it  was  cast; 
Came  out  from  shadows  of  the  groves — 
Came  near  where  they  were  lying  dead; 
And  seeing  them  locked  cold  and  fast, 
With  russet  leaves,  light  overspread 
The  plaintive  sorrow  of  their  fate, 
So  still,  and  pale,  and  desolate. 

XI. 

So  thou,  fair  Cumaen  Sibyl!8 
Lain  dead  for  ages,  may  not  will, 
From  soft  shut  eyelids  and  still  breath, 
To  wake  what  fancy  cherisheth. 
The  crisping  flames  that  arches  shook, 
Consumed  thy  bright  Sibylline  Book; 
And  fleets  may  sail  to  Egypt's  shore 
For  relics  of  the  proud  Cleo;9 
But  who  shall  find,  for  evermore, 
That  light,  bright  ashes,  slumb'ring  low? 
O'er  it  the  camel's  feet  may  haste, 


COZENZA. 

When  going  out  towards  Syria's  waste; 

And  Arab  idlers  may  sit  down 

On  perished  fragments  of  thy  crown: 

But  Alexandrian  fires  have  not 

Burned  the  strange  mystery  of  thy  lot; 

There  lives  some  flower's  perennial  bloom, 

To  ever  grow  upon  thy  secret  tomb. 

XII. 

Where  Cypress  groves,  low  murmur  infinite 
Sad  requiems  by  fountains  long  left  drear, 
No  more  beside  them  may  the  Goddess  sit 
Nor  sunlight,  mid  the  marbles,  shadows  rear: 
Kank,  o'er  their  ruins,  crowns  of  nettles  grow, 
Since  Bayard's  cruelties  encompassed  woe, 
And  left  the  lamentations  of  his  crime. 
Though  cold  the  sterile  majesty  of  time 
Whose  pale  form  moves  with  ceaseless,  noise 
less  tread, 

Where  now  no  captive,  stealthy  foe  beguiles; 
Though  springing  mines  are   still;  and   lone 

defiles 

Of  dense  Abruzzi,  hide  their  lines  of  dead, 
And  bear  soft  echoes  of  the   Alpine  chime, 
A  dirge  for  desp'rate  hopes  so  vainly  led, 
Through  Parian  caves,  whose  fine  veins  reveal 
What  flashed  with  luster  of  Canova's  steel: — 
0  land  of  Prowess!  there  is  still  in  thee, 
The  unsubdued,  stroog'wrath  of  agony! 
The  oaks  of  Virgil,  and^Nisida's  Isle; 
The  sunsets,  from  Miseno7s  hills,  that  smile 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  25 

O'er  burnished  Jasper  where  the   headlands 

lean, 

Still,  the  traveler  thrill. 
XIII. 

Where  thou  art  seen, 

Deserted  Pisa !  long  each  towering  dome10 
Has  been,  for  butterflies  and  birds,  a  home; 
And  doomed  consumptives  seek  thy  balmy  air, 
To  linger  out  sweet  life,  as  fleet  as  fair. 
The  chiseled  buttress  of  thy  lone,  vast  walls, 
To  glory  and  its  splendor,  ne'er  recalls; 
And  to  thy  litanies7  austere  restraint, 
The  Seabreeze  murmurs  back  responsive  plaint. 
Thy  great  Cathedral's  jewels  lie  in  gloom; 
And  all  thy  record  is  a  costly  tomb. 
Fortress,  and  Pyramid,  that  Satraps  raised, 
May  not  with  thee  be  classed,  with  thee  be  praised: 
Grand  Campo  Santo's  sculptured  arches  claim11 
The  birthplace  of  Historic  art's  pure  fame : 
Solid  with  stone,  and  solemn  unto  death — 
Hope's  immortality  expressed  to  faith, — 
The  light  of  an  existence  beaming  new, 
In  hollows  of  the  deep  grave  brightness  threw, 
Symbol  and  sanctity  in  awe  combine 
The  mystic  halos  of  each  pillared  shrine; 
And  precious  woods  whose  broad  walls,  varied 

gleam 

With  many  brilliant  shades  whose  colors  seem 
Iridescent  with  heaven's  ambient  beam, 
Arched  with  the  glory  of  its  promise  bow, 
Where  lit,  a  hundred  lamps  of  worship  glow; 

TrKlV°Ep^siTY 


COZENZA. 

Though   in   recumbent   grace,  or  though   they 

stand — 

Brutus  and  Bachus  in  the  silence  grand, 
Beside  the  holiness  of  truest  Saint — 
The  moveless  satire  of  time's  secret  plaint; 
Effaced,  or  half  effaced,  the  stones  of  script — 
The  cup  long  empty  by  the  lamp  of  Crypt, 
Long  cooled  upon  its  stand.  O'er  nameless  dust, 
The  corselet  of  the  warrior  left  to  rust; — 
As  of  Camillus,  it  is  said,  the  wing 
Of  some  light  flutterer  o'er  meads,  may  fling 
Renownless  atoms  on  the  summer  air, 
Borne  by  the  winglet  from  such  place  of  prayer; 
The  gorgeous  festivals  of  Lupercal, 12 
With  consecrated  lights,  no  longer  shall 
Glow  in  the  Pantheon;  for,  Candlemas — 
The  same — yet  not  the  same,  as  that  which  was, 
From  myriad  pagan  gods,  withdrawn  to  shine 
0  loved  Madonna  !  on  that  face  of  thine ! 
No  motto  graved  on  arch  or  cenotaph, 
Portrays  thy  mystic,  signal  glory — half; 
It  is  for  trembling  thoughts  that  dare  aspire; 
Though  dedicated  thou,  the  temple's  fire 
Blazed  in  the  pathway  of  thy  naked  feet 
Whose  steps  upon  the  ashes  are  complete — 
Minerva  and  Sibyl  have  quenched  tripod* 
Thou,  still  the  altar  of  the  ancient  gods. 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  27 


4 


arbonari. 


I. 

Out  ou  the  midnight  tolled  the  bell — 
Alerta  sta — that  all  was  well ! 
And,  still  was  the  air,  and  dim  the  sky 
With  the  thick,  dark  mist  that  hung  on  high: 
Nothing  was  heard  but  the  tramping  sound 
Of  slow  steps  timing  the  patrol's  round: 
The  people's  thoughts  were  as  quiet  wings 
In  careless  trust  of  unconscious  things; 
Save  only  a  dreamless,  tested  few 
That  in  trembling  dared — if  false — if  true; 
To  a  large  old  building  these  had  come, 
Except  for  a  password,  seeming  dumb. 
The  room  was  only  a  little  square, 
That  well  was  seated  when  all  were  there; 
And  a  strangely  fashioned  lamp  burned  bright, 
Which  brought  this  out  by  its  ruddy  light. 

II. 

They  were  a  class  from  the  best  of  men; 
When  gathered  and  reckoned,  numbered  ten; 
And  counted  in  age  from  twenty  four 


28  COZENZA. 

To  forty,  it  might  be,  less  or  more; 
With  faces  all  that  were  strongly  set, 
Where  purpose  and  will  together  met; 
With  glossy  dark  hair  and  foreheads  large, 
Where  thought  was  held  as  a  holy  charge; 
Whose  unshaken  faith  imperiled  fear, 
Had  heeded  not  when  in  meeting  here: 
To  Titian  these  were  a  worthy  band 
For  the  pencil's  toil  of  his  gifted  hand. 

III. 

All  silent — not  a  sound  of  breath — 
The  room  was  still,  as  still  as  death: 
At  last,  one  slowly  raised  his  head, 
From  leaning  on  his  hand,  and  said 
In  solemn  tone  that  trembled  low, — 
"Let  us  adjourn  it,  Brothers,  so; 
Because  a  revolution,  dared 
To  failure,  meets  no  hope's  reward  ; 
For  only  then  inhuman  shown 
Were  that  which  none  would  dare  to  own." 
Then  with  a  stern,  face  rose  there  one 
Who  said:    "Nay,  now  too  much  is  done  ! 
This,  the  land  of  Sicily's  sons, 
Of  mountain  caves,  and  burried  guns; 
The  stealthy  Sbirro  found  them  not 
i  Where  long  since  they  were  left  to  rot: 

Deep  from  their  rust  they're  taken  up 
To  fill  with  blood  the  Bourbon  cup; 
I  know  you'll  answer  best  in  deed 
What  thus  you  would  who  hear  and  heed." 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  29 

IV. 

They  rose  at  his  inspiring  word, 

As  though  a  wind  a  forest  stirred: 

Suppressed  and  slow,  one  spoke  for  all — 

"This  purpose  we  shall  not  recall. 

If  still,  imperious  repose 

Abjures  the  will,  let  it  disclose 

The  fainting  doubt  that  strives,  and  guess 

The  furtive  No  or  faithful  yes"  ! 

And  "Yes"  repeated  ev'ry  one — 

That  night's  most  secret  pledge  was  done. 

V. 

Out  paled  the  stars,  stillness,  and  dews, 

Dawn's  manifest  sweet  interfuse; 

And  there  Cozenza  stood  alone, 

For  each  had  passed,  and  all  had  gone. 

He  bared  a  white  brow  to  the  night,  which  shone 

Like  a  drooped  wing  whose  dove  plumed  peace  had 

flown. 

» 

Or,  the  soft  crest  that  at  the  sunrise  lines 
The  morning  sky  of  his  own  Apennines. 
Is  there  some  harmony  of  deepest  close  ? 
Or  fine  laid  color  of  the  sweet  bloom  rose? 
A  conscript  sleeping  ere  the  day  he  goes, 
The  void  of  outward  things;  the  transient  breath 
Of  kindling  heaven;  and  the  secret  wrath 
Of  a  wild  river  that  breaks  out  from  snows: 
Yet,  with  that  patience  in  his  dark  eyes  deep, 
As  of  some  pain  long  borne,  and  laid  to  sleep. 
Such  was  Cozenza;  and  a  vigil's  flame 


30  COZENZE. 

Burned  in  the  very  signal  of  his  name — 
A  fettered  triumph,  and  a  scepter's  claim. 

VI. 

Half  rounded  was  the  wall,  and  ten  feet  high, 
Where  nine  devoted  men  were  led  to  die; 
At  base  of  Pell egrino — Ciardone — 
A  plain  beyond  the  city,  vast,  and  lone, 
Excepting  a  stone  bench,  altar,  and  seat — 
Where  last  prayers  were  said,  fearless,  and  fleet. 
'Twas  there  Cozenza's  father,  shot  to  death, 
With  fortitude's  last  hour  and  love's  last  breath, 
Adjured  the  son  beloved,  with  heritage 
Whose  light  illumined  all  life's  after  page 
With  high  intent,  and  firmest  rectitude; 
The  efforts  of  high  aims,  not  understood 
As  yet,  by  that  fair  boy,  who  wept  and  heard 
As  one  who  stood  in  caves  where  thunder  stirred. 
Half  conscious  of  his  sad  impending  loss, 
Through  corridors  so  sloping,  tortuous, 
Far  down  before  a  key  had  turned  the  door, 
Whose  gloomy  entrance  was  a  prison  cell; 
Where  dawn  scarce  lightened  night  one  little  hour: 
Stricken  and  drooping,  like  a  storm  drenched  flower, 
The  child  was  gently  led  to  this  farewell. 
VII. 

And  soon,  the  dear  embrace  that  held  him  close, 
Had  calmed  his  young  heart's  anguish  to  repose: 
The  grief  of  love's  despair,  first,  last,  once  more, 
Had  stamped  that  tender  heart  indellible — 
There,  within  clammy  walls  whose  dungeon  light 


A   TALE    OF    ITALY.  31 

Was  toned  to  quail  a  malefactor's  blight. 

The  low  vault  roof,    the  straw  strewn   floor,  and 

stool, 

The  only  furniture  allowed  by  rule, 
Except  a  lantern  that  unsteady  swung, 
And  wavered  when,  with  clang,  the  door  was  flung: 
Here,  mournful  and  intent,  the  dying  sire 
A  martyr's  holy  faith,  would  still  inspire: 
Soulfelt  and  whispering  the  while  with  joy, 
"Be  as  a  father,  to  thy  brothers,  boy, 
And,  to  thy  stricken  mother,  gentle  e'er, 
Bereaved  so  bitterly,  sustained  by  pray'r; 
Unsullied  be  the  name  I  leave  to  thee; 
Keep  it,  rememb'ring  efforts  yet  to  be, 
The  watchword  of  a  trial's  darkest  sea — 
A  standard  for  thy  country's  liberty.'7 

VIII. 

So  died  that  hero;  and  two  decades  gone, 
Cold  grew  the  horror  of  the  deed  long  done; 
And  colder,  the  sweet  eyes  that  wept  for  him, 
Some  years  since  veiled  with  yew  trees,  and  grown 

dim, 

That  widowed  mother  of  majestic  grief — 
As  for  the  rest,  it  is  all  less  and  brief; 
The  confiscating  spoiler's  claim  was  rife, 
And  left  Cozenza  but  a  restless  life, 
At  times,  he  visited  the  stony  shrine, 
To  keep  hope  definite,  not  to  repine. 
There  still  the  bullet  holes  struck  in  the  wall, 
Or,  there  a  mourning  peasant  to  recall 


32  COZENZA. 

The  recollections  long  revered  with  dread, 
And  teach  his  son  to  name  the  honored  dead, 
While  half  unmindful  of  the  stranger,  near, 
Who  loved  to  hear  him,  whom  he  need  not  fear, 
Though  telling  how,  again  the  noble  land 
Felt  all  the  hated  cratt  of  Ferdinand. 
And  thus,  Cozenza's  manhood,  sadly  came 
Through  direst  vengeance  and  ambitious  flame: 
Grand  in  his  sorrow,  in  his  purpose  strong, 
Bound  as  to  Sethori,  to  his  life  that  wrong.13 
With  anger  ninefold,  and  a  father  lost — 
His  young  reflections  on  mad  billows  tost — 
An  orphan  boy  forgotten,  until  when, 
One  more  than  nine,  he  made  the  secret  ten, — 
The  faithful,  trusted  ten  who  understood, 
And  pledged  their  service  in  Abruzzi's  wood. 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY. 


| 


he        ba   of  ilu 


I. 


There  was  no  rest:  the  awful  night, 

"Was  full  of  death's  wan,  stricken  blight:  — 

The  dreadful  Plague  held  carnival; 

Not  heeding  couch,  nor  cup,  nor  pall, 

Nor  rank,  nor  age,  nor  station  —  all 

Afflicted,  fair  Palermo  wept 

In  sadness,  and  death  vigils  kept. 

The  dead-cart  rolled  —  the  ready  grave 

Was  all  a  victim  hoped  to  have. 

"Bring  out  your  dead,7'  the  ghoulish  cry; 

Or  "haste!  come  on  !  don't  wait  to  die"  ! 

The  fiendish  glance  —  the  curse  —  the  laugh- 

Told  not  the  horror  all  —  nor  half; 

Else,  strict,  wide,  silence,  just  not  dumb, 

But  wakeful  faintly  with  the  hum 

Of  moans,  that  followed  still  a  moan  — 

From  distance  come,  to  distance  gone:  — 

The  closing  bang  of  rough  box  lids  — 

The  cry,  —  the  stillness  that  forbids 


34  COZENZA. 

To  question  what  was  shut  in  there; — 
The  driver's  oath — the  mourner's  pray'r — 
Mingled  upon  the  midnight  air, — 
One  scarce  the  city,  now  could  know, 
So  changed  by  one  short  month  of  woe. 
Bright  little  shops,  and  houses  closed; — 
Death's  squalor  there  alone  reposed; 
And,  that  the  dead  might  burried  be, 
Were  hated  criminals  set  free. 

II 

Holding  a  phial's  strong  perfume, 

The  priest  and  doctor  strode  through  gloom, 

Conferring  formal  rites  to  die, 

Reserved  to  special  ministry; 

And  other  adjutants  were  there, 

Besmeared  with  dirt — with  matted  hair; 

And  arms,  and  legs,  and  feet,  left  bare; 

These  carriers  of  the  dead,  bestowed 

In  careless  haste,  each  added  load; 

And  with  some  gaudy  finery  laid, 

A  hideous  derision  made: 

Each  dirty  rag,  or  falling  shred, 

Was  mixed  with  plunder  from  the  dead; — 

Fine  silks,  embroidered  vests,  and  coats, 

Deep  satin  ties  round  grimy  throats, 

And  fingers  sparkling  full  of  rings — 

O'er  all  a  frightful  aspect   throw, 

Wierd  contrast  with  life's  flitting  show:— 

The  crowded  cart  of  senseless  woes, 

One  more  or  less  thrown  in,  ne'er  knows; 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  35 

Then  Charon  in  another  flings — 
All  ready,  mounts  his  seat,  and  sings. 
Grieving,  a  voice  was  heard  to  say, — 
"Here  is  one  dead  !  stop,  come  this  way"  ! 
And,  at  a  window  opened,  shown 
A  maiden's  face  fair,  and  alone. 

III. 

Her  mournful   eyes   now   tear-stained,  late   were 

bright 

With  earnest  smiles  that  beamed  like  rays  of  light; 
Of  the  fairest  race,  she  was  beauty's  own, 
Her  brow  like  a  lily  that  night  is  on, 
Her  delicate  lips  of  Raphael  curve. 
Had  the  lucid  vein  and  tremulous  nerve, 
Pliant  with  power's  mysterious  being — 
It  is  not  described,  you  know  it  when  seeing. 
In  play  of  the  wind,  moved  her  soft,  dark  curls; 
Her  hand  was  the  sign  of  a  thousand  Earls— 
Though  I  write  this  in  a  Kepublic  land, 
There  are  many  here  who  will  understand, — 
We  are  still  like  those  who  have  gone  before  us, 
This  rule  holds  good  since  old  Heliodorus: 
And  no  matter  what  transmigrated  shore  is, 
The  destiny  of  a  wandering  race, 
It  is  still  the  same,  through  all  time  or  place; — 
And  when  I  have  mentioned  her  teeth  of  pearls, 
I've  told  of  one  of  the  prettiest  girls, 
And  a  Neapolitan  home  and  name 
Of  the  proudest  and  noblest,  she  might  claim. 


30  COZENZA. 

IV, 

What  did  she  there  alone  ?   what  did  she  there  ? 
This  being,  like  a  flower,  strange  and  fair; 
Escaping,  while  she  dared  the  pestilence — 
Her  low  voice  on  the  night — the  darkness  dense, 
Except  the  fitful  torches  here  and  there, 
That  paled  in  vapors  of  the  midnight  air? 
Oh  !  she  was  not  alone: — in  anguished  prayer 
Her  mother  sobbing,  knelt  upon  the  floor, 
With  bended  head,  too  prostrate  to  adore; 
And  here,  with  dread  abandon  of  great  grief, 
The  father  lay  in  death, — sad,  cold  relief! 

V. 

The  mother  trembled  to  a  gentle  touch, — 

U0  grieve  not,  mother;  nay,  why  weep  so  much  ? 

If  we  should  leave  for  Naples  ere  the  sun, 

Think  where  we  are,  and  all  that  must  be  done  : 

An  English  brig  will  leave  Messina — and — 

You  may,  or  will  you  write  to  Ferdinand  ?" 

She  hesitated  in  emotion,  as 

Though  she  had  thought  of  more,  and  let  it  pass. 

"  My  child  speak  on,  I  know  what  you  would  say; 

I  do  not  care  to  haste,  nor,  make  delay, 

Indifferent,  let  fate  bring  what  it  may. 

Ah  !  yes  ;  I  know  the  rest ;  your  anxious  face — 

This  hour  restraining  love,  hath  still  its  grace; 

For  you,  my  dear,  I  scarce  know  what  to  do, — 

We  go  to  San  Gregorio  Armeno: 

My  cousin,  the  good  Abbess,  will  to  thee 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  37 

Extend  her  cautious  care,  months  two,  or  three: 
There  I  will  leave  thee,  till  returned  again — 
Some  pension  from  the  king  I  must  attain.  " — 
Downcast,  Etolia  listened;   and  silent,   did  remain. 

VI. 

Here  three  men  entered,  and  the  converse  ceased: 

One  of  them,  seeming  a  St.  Francis  priest: 

From  all  quarters  in  a  ritual  book, 

The  trusted  monks,  dread  correspondence,  took. 

Father  Caldara,  being  one  of  those — 

A  patriot  too,  despite  the  calm  repose 

Of  pious  law — a  faithful  priest  withal, 

Fervently  ready  unto  duty's  call, 

He  cared  not.  for  the  pestilential  breath — 

Despair  had  nought  for  him;  and  life,  no  death; 

And  passing,  where  the  Plague  flag's  yellow  furl 

Waved  o'er  the  mother  and  the  watchful  girl, 

Had  entered  neath  its  death-like  shadows  low; 

He  had  known  Olevano  long  ago — 

De  Olevano,  noblest  Count  that  e'er 

Sued  to  tyrant  king,  a  patriot's  prayer; 

Suspected,  to  be  disaffected,  long, 

Patient,  he  waited  the  redress  of  wrong, 

Through  dull,  inactive  years  of  want  and  pain.— 

At  length,  to  royal  favor  once  again, 

Too  late  restored,  by  effort  that  obtained 

The  service  that  his  rank  and  worth,  had  claimed: 

A  far  Calabrian  Governor,  the  meed 

Appointed  by  the  king  unto  his  need. 

Now  he  lay  dead;  no  voice  to  wake  him  more: 


COZENZA. 

Daughter,  and  wife,  alone  the  loss  deplore — 
For  nurse,  and  servants  all  had  died  before. 
VII. 

In  upper  hills  of  Naples,  gorge  and  dell, — 
With  cloud-lit  splendors  that  above  them  swellj 
Close  to  sweet,  small  Lesila's  olive  groves — 
Were  Olevano's  towers,  filled  with  doves; 
And  silent  halls,  and  splendid  spacious  rooms, 
And  remnants  of  the  past,  and  lonely  tombs 
Of  ancestry. 

VIII. 

But  now  they  could  not  place 
Him  placidly  to  rest — could  not  retrace 
Their  journey  there.  Alas,  so  far  away 
From  their  unrested  hope  that  stricken  day. 
The  proud,  old  Castle  Olevano  lay  ; 
Quiet  and  grand,  the  sleeping  hills  among: 
While  o'er  its  lord,  the  pall  of  death  was  flung — 
Not  now  at  least;  but  with  the  Sylva's  dead, 
Strangers — and  many — there,  he  must  be  laid: 
Delays,  and  journeys,  and  the  quarantine — 
So  far,  his  distant  home — these  were  between, 

IX. 

Unto  the  Sylva,  then  they  took  him: — Fate14 
Had  no  alternative;  and  desolate 
Was  night,  a  night  of  sorrow — the  hour  late — 
They  took  him,  mourning,  without  pomp  or  state; 
Alike,  that  dreadful  time,  to  poor  and  great, 
Was  the  remorseless  Plague's  insatiate  frown. 


'  In  upper  hills  of  Naples,  gorge  and  dell, — 
"With  cloud-lit  splendors  that  above  them  swell; 
Close  to  sweet,  small  Lesila's  olive  groves — 
Were  Olevano's  towers,  filled  with  doves; 
And  silent  halls,  and  splendid,  spacious  roooms, 
And  remnants  of  the  past,  and  lonely  tombs 
Of  ancestry." 

Page  38.— Stanza  Y1I. 


A   TALE    OF    ITALY.  39 

The  glorious   moon  in  splendor  streaming  down 
On  gardens  long,  and  by-paths  in  the  trail 
Along  which  moved  the  cortege;  and  the  pale, 
Bright  stars  came  out  to  gem  the  concave  vale: — 
The  wind's  wild  wail,  through    bending  boughs 

made  sound 

Of  music,  to  the  shadows  on  the  ground:— 
Except  a  woman's  grieving  widowhood, — 
All  listless,  the  centurial  Cypress  wood 
Far  out  against  the  sky  like  watchers  stood; 
And  the  lone  patrol,  on  his  nightly  round, 
Whose  footsteps  moved  the  silence — else  profound. 

x. 

Close  to  the  iron  gate,  they  entered  by, 
Was  a  small  pillar,  pointing  to  the  sky, 
Which,  frescoed  paintings  of  the  Passion,  showed, 
Or,  how  the  burning  fires  of  Hades  glowed: — 
Then  a  square  grating  to  an  under  vault, 
At  turning  of  some  Avenue,  was  caught: — 
Sad  glimpses  all,  though  beautiful  the  scroll 
Which  in  the  silv'ry  moonlight  o'er  them  stole; 
And  there,  through  vacant  spaces  of  the  trees, 
A  Gothic  Chapel's  soft,  illumined  peace : — 
Here  to  the  Sylva,  when  the  dews  were  deep, 
The  few  had  come  to  bury  him,  and  weep. 

XI. 

Another  there  had  come:  what  was  his  quest  ? 
Was  he  a  watcher  in  that  place  of  rest? 
Why  started  he,  when  drew  the  cortege  near  ? 
Was  he  a  waiting  mourner  of  the  bier  ? 


40  COZENZA. 

Or  had  the  anxious  thought,  that  often  glooms 
The  soul,  enticed  him  forth  among  the  tombs? 
The  wheeling  bat  flew  by  him,  and  away; 
Restless,  he  moved  where  darker  shadows  lay, 
And  sadly  mused: — 

"O  life,  thou  art  a  day  ! 
Behold,  how  many  great  and  noble  sleep, 
Within  these  spacious  vaults,  that  silence  keep  ! 
Hark !  the  cemetery  bell — the  lone  hour 
Of  midnight  in  the  mountains!  dismal  power  ! 
Rebounding,  echoes  from  each  distant  place  ! 

0  man  !  one  hour  is  past — one  more  to  trace ! 
Happy  is  he  who  has  no  cause  to  fear 

The  hour  of  destiny  approaching  near. 

Yea,  mourning  women  !  whom  I  watch,  unseen, 

Sad  emblems  of  my  country  !  do  you  lean 
Your  broken  hearts  upon  a  broken  reed? 

Let  Faith  and  Hope  inspire  despair's  great  need  1?) 
XII. 

Thus  mused  Cozenza;  until  thought  was  staid 
By  a  light  hand  upon  his  shoulder  laid. 

1  'Delay  not?>  said  the  low  voice — he  obeyed. 
^Caldara !  Friend  and  Father  !  is  it  you? 

I  have  waited  here  some  hours  in  the  dew. 
Are  they  all  down  there  now  ?"  he  sudden  grew 
More  cautions  still  with  this  inquiring  tone, 
And  glanced  to  see  were  yet  the  mourners  gone. 
"Who   are  fhey^. — Are   they  strangers?    Do   you 

know? 
What  news  ?  and  tell  me  quickly,  speaking  low." 


A   TALE    OF    ITALY.  41 

XIII. 

"''What  news,  and  who  are  tlmjl  sad  news  at  best: 

There  lies  Count  Olevauo  at  his  rest; 

And  there,  his  wife  and  daughter  desolate; 

And,  since  a  few  days,  hapless  is  the  strait 

Of  fair  Messina,  filled  with  ships  of  fate — 

The  devastating  troops  are  landing  in 

Carnage  most  terrible,  and  ruin's  din — 

The  people  of  Messina  fly  to  us — 15 

Our  two  battalions  are  a  total  loss  ! — 

Boys,  twenty,  and  sixteen,  how  well  sustained, 

Unflinchingly,  and  long — the  heart  is  pained; — 

Out  of  two  thousand,  there  returned,  but  eight; 

Presenting  to  the  Ministry,  they  said: 

'Behold,  and  count  us  !  all  the  rest  are  dead! 

Here  is  our  Banner,  and  heed  not  our  fate  ! — 

Though  red  the  waters  of  Messina  run, 

And  we  were  slaughtered, — is  its  honor  won.' r> 

XIV. 

"Does  Countess  Olevano  know  I'm  here  f 
To  fair  Etolia  speak  before  you  go; 
And,  if  she  know  not,  you  may  let  her  know, 
And  tell  our  friends  below,  that  I  am  near  ! 
I  knew  all  that  you  told  me  of  the  fleet, 
And  fighting  at  Messina.     It  is  meet, 
Some  care  be  taken  of  those  ladies — chance 
Alone  must  grant  them  safe  deliverance; — 
Because  the  English  Brig,  no  refugees 
Will  take  on  board,  until  a  day  of  peace," 


42  COZENZA. 

XV. 

The  grieving  Countess  had  to  pray'r  withdrawn, 
To  wait  within  the  little  church,  till  dawn  ; 
Her  child's  low  converse  with  the  friendly  priest — 
Anxiety  or  thought,  cost  not  the  least: 
It  was,  no  doubt,  some  gentle  care  they  planned 
Of  morning  journey,  and  to  understand 
Who  should  companions  be. 

XVI. 

There  was  no  lamp; 

The  moon,  alone,  lit  all  the  heavenly  camp, 
Etolia  listened  !  Ah  what  soft,  light  step? — 
Her  lips  were  parted;  and  her  breath   was  deep — 
There  in  half  shadow,  there,  before  her  stood — 
Yea,  he  had  come !  and  dark  the  Cypress  wood  ; 
And  white  the  low  Verbenas  on  the  ground 
Beside  his  pathway,   silent,  most  profound. 
He  was  her  own  :  the  aerial  glow 
And  her  own  frightened  heart,  his  name  might  know. 
She  did  not  greet  him  with  her  joy  or  woe  ; 
But  took  his  hand,  saying  or  sighing,  oh  ! 
What  things  he  said — his  sweet  and  fond  embrace — 
Would  here  in  passive  words  find  little  trace. 
What  efforts  then  she  made  with  tremors  cold, 
That  swift  her  startled  thoughts  to  him   be  told — 
His  kisses  oft — Ah  me  !  the  story  old — 
And  yet,  forever  good,  like  perfect  gold. 

XVII. 

Would  she  go  to  Carmine  f  there  he  held 
Apostolato  sittings.     Numbers  swelled 


A  TALE    OF    ITALY.  43 

Daily,  the  ranks  of  the  devoted  few, 
Whose  fervent  destiny  more  brightly  grew  ; 
And  her  own  happiness  more  sweetly  true. 
Nay,  it  were  vain  to  ask  king  Ferdinand, 
Consent  to  e'er  bestow  on  him  her  hand; 
Too  deep  endorsement  of  suspected  taint 
Would  seal  her 'father's  mem'ry  with  complaint  : 
Her  loving  mother's  need — the  kingly  ire, 
Were  she  to  wed  a  Lib'ral,  adding  fire 
To  what  had  been  alleged  against  her  sire. 

XYIII. 

While  ling'ring,  loving,  grieving,  waited  they, 
The  hours  delayed  not  the  approaching  day. 
Passive  and  mute,  with  resignation  won, 
She  had  with  effort  felt  that  all  was  done — 
He  had  departed  with  the  waning  moon. — 
Pale,  as  the  Ivory  statue  of  Alea, 
She  stood,  forgetful  he  was  not  still  near. — 
The  night  wind  blew  ;  but  not  the  Sylva's  dead 
Heard  the  sweet  words  that  he  had  fondly  said  : — 
She  murmured  ; 

XIX. 

li  0  my  God  !  thy  will  be  done  ; 
As  a  wrecked  swimmer  on  the  waters  thrown, 
My  hope  is  at  thy  mercy — thine  alone  ! 
Ah  !  now  to  me,  it  has  been  w  ell  revealed, 
That  thy  dear  presence  inaccessible, 
Hid  in  the  tempest,  like  a  cloud-wrapt  sun, 
Is  that  to  which  my  soul  should  have  appealed, 
Changeless  forever,  without  human  spell — 


44  COZENZA. 

Of  eyes  whose  look  is  a  vain  agony , — 

Of  lips  whose  beauty  is  a  silent  wail  ; 

These  have  no  story  e'er  to  tell  to  me — 

Those  shade  their  splendor  in  thy  Temple's  vail  I" 

xx. 

On  her  foot,  was  placed  the  slipper  of  glass  ; 
She  could  not  stand  up  when  her  Prince   did   pass; 
The  spindle  was  touched  ;  and  the  Princess  slept — 
And  lowly,  Etolia  knelt  down,  and  wept. 

XXI. 

0  mystic  Love  !  Why,  in  thy  sense  of  soul, 
Is  some  pain  perfect  to  usurp  control  ? 
A  gentle  Wolf  that  walks  within  the  wood  ; 
A  little  one  who  knows  not  ill  from  good. 
Whom  we  remember  by  her  crimson  hood — 
Her  hapless  Grandma  not  more  wise  than  she, 
Ages  on  ages  keep  their  legendry  : 
Forever,  is  the  latch  unlifted — -yet, — * 
We  see,  with  consternation  and  regret, 
Outside,  the  Wolf  and  Riding  Hood  still  wait  : 
Inside,  the  Grandmother  bewails  her  fate — 
All  this — for  sake  of  Love  we  would  forget. 
Still,  Mustapha's  son  the  mystery  tries  : 
The  Lamp  is  touched  to  luster  with  surprise, 
While  countless  gems  flash  out  before  his  eyes  : 
Elate  with  pride  and  hope,  ambitions  blend  ; 
And  a  black  mountain,  and  its  caverns  end 
The  journey  where  the  Genii  descend. 


A   TALE    OF    ITALY.  45 


lie   flafacombs. 


I. 

Follow  Cozenza,  where  the  colored  panes 

Chequered  the  somber  light  with  many  stains, 

Around  the  Chapel,  to  another  door ; 

Entering,  unobserved  as  all  before, 

He  looked  around,  and  saw  he  was  alone. 

At  one  end,  was  an  altar  of  gray  stone, 

Surmounted  by  a  heavy  cross  of  wood 

That  for  a  century  upon  it  stood  : 

Short  rows  of  benches  leaned  against  the  walls, 

Unpainted  ;  and  quaint  biers  with  faded  palls 

That  once  were  damask — even  signal  death, 

Faded  or  graded,  a  tokened  splendor  hath. 

Several  pick-axes,  and  bars,  and  spades, 

Lay  in  another  corner — fun'ral  aids. 

n. 

An  oaken  door  led  from  the  altar's  left  — 
Downward  a  solid  stairs  that  had  been  cleft 
From  rock.     Here  faintest  gleam  of  light  had  fled, 
And  made  more  cautions  each  descending  tread. 


46  C  0  Z  E  N  Z  A  . 

Thus  downward,  making  steps  and  pathway  sure, 
He  reached  the  second  narrow  sepulture, 
Which  being  dark,  he  stumbled  o'er  a  skull, 
Or  ran  against  the  niches  that  were  full 
Of  ghastly  inmates,  till  he  turned  a  third 
Long  gall'ry — saw  a  light,  and  voices  heard. 
Here,  too,  an  altar,  and  some  seats  of  stone, 
Used  by  the  Monks  at  pray'r  in  days  long  gone; 
Once  more  the  Comitato's  tested  few, 
Welcomed  their  daring  leader,  tried  and  true. 

III. 

Father  Caldara,  and  some  twenty  more, — 

One  of  them  went  to  guard  the  staircase  door, 

The  others  seated  on  the  benches,  round, 

Attentive  silence,  pending  and  profound, 

Secret  and  pledged,  an  anxious,  waiting  Band — 

All  sworn  enemies  to  Ferdinand. 

Those  men  of  Fate  !  0  Palmerston  !  what  use16 

Your  crafty  policy  and  futile  snares  ? 

They  dared  and  suffered,  though  you  did  refuse 

The  promised  aid  to  their  relying  prayers. 

IV. 

Caldara  stood  with  foot  upon  the  stair 

Of  the  lone,  long  forgotten  altar,  where, 

Within  a  little  nook,  a  lantern's  gleam 

Made  all  the  gloomy  shadows  denser  seem, 

But  lighting  earnest  thought  in  ev'ry  beam 

Of  soulful  eyes  there  gathered,  though  but  few, 

Brave  leaders  all,  of  mountain  peasants  who, 


A    TALE     OF    ITALY.  4? 

Would  die  with  them,  when  they  their  lances  drew. 
Sworn  on  the  skull  and  crossbones  lying  there, 
Cozenza's  left  hand  resting  on  them  —  bare; 
Emblems  of  Death  most  awful,  just,  severe, 
Not  signs  of  failure,  slavery,  nor  fear. 
'*  Son  of  the  martyred  dead  !   Hath  the  hour  come? 
Fulfill  thy  chosen  vow,  accept  thy  doom  ! 
Here  we  have  gathered  from  the  cities  far, 
To  guide  our  liberties  beneath  thy  star  : 
Marked  is  the  glass;  and  falling  grain  by  grain, 
Our  citizens;  our  hopes,  our  efforts,  vain  ! 
Here  to  concert  —  then,  let  the  trial  be; 
ITALIA  UNA,  AND  OUR  LIBERTY  !'? 

V. 

''Brothers  !  invested  with  your  sternest  trust, 
E'en  as  a  breastplate  in  the  bloody  dust, 
With  hope's  collectedness  I  take  the  task; 
And  with  what  dangers  fraught,  I  do  not  ask. 
Of  old,  the  dusty  banner  in  this  vault, 
The  breeze  of  Freedom  on  the  sunshine  caught; 
And  well  you  know  that  ev'ry  shining  blade 
Must  be  a  victor's  or  a  martyr's,  laid 
Upon  its  crumbling  fold,"  —  this,  all  he  said. 
"  We  do,  we  swear  it,"  and  they  all  arose; 
As  a  storm  lightens  wh  jn  a  rainbow  glows,— 
So  flashed  their  eyes,  and  clashed  their  saber  blows. 
But  lo!  that  moment  from  the  gallery's  end, 
What  instant  terror  does  that  voice  portend  ? 
i(  O  fated  men  !  low  hangs  the  tyrant's  sword: 
Light  be  your  footsteps  —  silent  ev'ry  word  : 


(UNIVERSITY 

v 


48  COZENZA. 

Sbirri  are  knocking  at  the  Sylva's  gate : 17 
We  must  not  fall  alive — defend  your  fate! 
Fierce  Maniscalco's  minions  trapped  you  here — 
If  we  must  fall,  our  blood  shall  cost  them  dear." 

VI. 

u  Be  calm,"  Caldara  said;  "  this  shock  to  meet ; 

Stir  not,  though  time  is  precious,  minutes  fleet.'7 

Approaching  a  side  niche,  he  touched   a  spring, — 

Though  not  performing  in  the  highland  fling — 

The  standing  occupant  around  did  swing, 

Disclosing  an  apperture  into  which 

They  scarce  could  pass,  man  after  man.  The  niche 

Kevolved  back  to  its  place  with  ringing  sound ; 

And  in  a  grotto,  then,  themselves  they  found, — , 

Not  more  than  eight  by  ten,  in  height  or  size; 

Of  unaccustomed  darkness  to  their  eyes; 

So  damp  and  chill  the  air,  their  blood  would  freeze; 

But  stirred  by  dire  alarm,  and  ill  at  ease 

With  great  excitement — there  was  little  thought 

Of  cold  or  damp — such  things  were  held  as  nought. 

VII. 

"Hasten!"  said  Caldara;  "because,  if  they 
Perceive  with  certainty  we  gathered  here; 
And  that  there  is  not  an  apparent  way 
For  our  escape, — I  doubt  not;  and  I  fear, 
They'll  knock  down  all  the  dead,  until  they  meet 18 
The  secret  spring  discovering  our  retreat." 
Dismal  the  grotto,  though  the  lantern's  light 
They  still  had  with  them,  taken  in  their  flight. 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  49 

Speechless  they  hurried;  winding  farther  in 
To  where  the  deeper  depths  of  Earth  begin; 
With  many  turnings,  and  at  times  ascending, 
Contracting,  narrowing,  then  downward  tending 
Where  chisel  marks  were  seen,and  showed  that  man 
Had  made  it  wider,  where  it  was  a  span. 
Some  spacious  caverns  were   adorned  with  bright, 
Fantastic,  basalt  rocks,  and  chrysolite, 
And  hanging  stalactites  that  sparkled  high, 
Like  emeralds,  or  diamonds,  or  the  sky 
When  from  the  milky-way,  star-studded  light 
Beams  down  resplendent  on  a  summernight. 
In  other  places  they  were  stifled,  by 
A  lack  of  air,  and  felt  about  to  die, — 
When  from  the  creviced  mountain,  just  above, 
A  breeze  came  wafted  like  a  message  dove. 

O  ' 

Eestoring  them  to  vigor  once  again. 

Two  miles  of  weary  way  were  traversed,  when, 

Like  hunted  harts,  each  tired,  listening  ear 

Heard  sound,  of  falling  water  somewhere  near — 

A  subterraneous  cataract,  pent 

Within  the  strata,  until  finding  vent, 

Where  throes  of  Earth,  the  shaken  rocks,  had  rent, 

It  foamed  the  cavern  in  its  mad  descent. 

VIII. 

The  sounds  increased,  as  on  they  nearer  drew; 
Smoother  the  path — ;  the  cavern  larger  grew: — 
More  damp,  and  cool,  and  fresh,  the  air  that  blew. 
Concealed  by  mist  and  foam,  a  passage  lay, 
Which  should  be  crossed  before  the  break  of  day: 


50  COZENZA. 

A  sheet  of  water,  falling  from  a  hight 

Some  fifteen  feet,  was  dashing,  foamy,  bright, 

Over  a  second  fall,  or  precipice, 

With  noise  tremendous  into  an  abyss : — 

They  stopped  in  blank  amaze  when  nearing  this. 

Irresolute,  a  moment  there  they  stood; — 

The  path  so  sloping  neath  the  frenzied  flood, 

Of  swift  descending  water,  now  they  viewed : — 

One  step,  made  false — were  sure  vicissitude. 

IX. 

Caldara  first,  with  staff,  went  carefully; 
Cozenza  held  his  belt,  and  turning,  he 
Admonished  order  and  attention — last, 
Each  clasped  the  other's  hand,   and  safely  passed. 
"  Here,  now  for  needful  rest, — you  may  abide; 
Fll  watch,  the  while  you  sleep,"  the  faithful  guide 
Said  thoughtfully,  of  their  so  late  fatigue. 
They  rested;  and,  when  silence  on  them  came, 
Cozenza's  restless  thoughts  were  on  the  League; 
And,  seeing  that  they  slept  not,  he  might  claim 
Their  aid  discussing  the  new  action's  plan. 
It  was  so  then  devised,  that  ev'ry  man 
Should  form  a  Cormitato's  separate  ten, 
Each  one  of  whom  in  turn  to  other  men 19> 
Should  bond  and  secret  of  the  League  impart, 
But  not  the  intimation  of  its  start; 
Thus  strictest  secrecy's  profound  regard, 
Compelled  as  safety's  watch,  and  faithful    ward — 
Even  inflicted  torture  could  not  claim 
Knowledge  of  more  than  one,  such  leader's  name. 


A   TALE    OF    ITALY.  51 

And,  being  in  this  way,  confined  to  few, 
Betrayal  could  not  harm  the  whole  League  through. 
Caldara's  monks  might  traverse  all  the  towns — 
Free  of  suspicion  were  their  holy  gowns; 
What  subtile  strength  ulterior  motive  tries; 
Thus  Freedom's  strongest  allies  in  disguise, 
With  ardent  zeal,  would  aid  the  enterprise. 


The  sun  had  now  illumed  the  morning  skies; 
And  softly  splendid  were  his  gorgeous  dyes, 
Astream  the  vale,  where  sweet  Palermo  lies; 
Halting,  they  found  themselves  upon   a  mount 
Four  miles  of  weary  distance  they  might  count 
Outside  Palermo,  since  the  painful  night 
Of  danger's  chance  and  terror's  secret  flight. 
Close  by,  a  splendid  frescoed,  ruined  wall 
Stood  in  sublime  decay.     Here  parting  all — 
Cozenza  counselling,  their  parting  led, 
And  with  impressive  words  in  fervor  said; 
"  Here  part  we  in  the  name  of  God; 
The  peasants  soon  will  be  abroad, 
And  take  strange  note  of  what  we  do — 
This  lonely  place  is  full  in  view — 
The  town  of  Morreale,  each 
Alone,  an  hour  hence,  may  reach: 
The  patrols  then  will  have  retired — 
Keep  bright  the  hope,  so  late  inspired — 
Farewell !  Farewell!  our  oaths  retain." 
Some  of  them  never  met  again. 


52  C  O  Z  E  N  Z  A  . 

XI. 

Keturn  we  to  Etolia,  where  she  wept, 
And  all  the  long,  long  night  its  vigil  kept ; 
And  vainly  did  her  thoughts  like  billows  toss, 
Lamenting,  more  than  ever,  true  love's  loss. 
She  dared  not  ask  a  mother's  grief  to  share 
The  woe  that  burdened  her  with  keen  despair  • 
But  strong  relief  in  prayerful  words  she  sought; 
And  thus  alone  poured  out  each  anguished  thought. 
"Thou  wilt  forget  me  in  my  cheerless  lot, 
Cozenza,  my  beloved  ! — wilt  thou  not? 
O  God !  he  will  forget  in  hope's  decay, 
Though  I  may  love,  and  watch,  and  weep,  and  pray; 
Oh  I  must  love  thee?  through  all  ill  and  blame, 
Though  bitter  fountains  of  mine  anguish  threw 
Some  drops  upon  the  bright  fire  of  thy  name, 
Still  wert  thou  tender  unto  me,  and  true; — 
Beloved  !  forever  let  it  be  the  same. 
A  fate  is  on  me,  friend — thy  tribute  sent — 
And  from  my  grief  in sep'rate — thy  intent ! 
Have  I  not  won  of  thee  some  pow'r  to  bless 
My  longing  heart  1  to  triumph  o'er  distress  ? 
Father  in  Heaven  !  only  thou  canst  send 
The  light  upon  the  darkness,  till  the  end  ! 
My  youth  glides  from  me  like  a  forest  stream, 
Darkly,  and  far,  without  the  sunlight's  gleam; 
But  once,  through  kindling  boughs,  thy  love  shone 

down, 

And  lightened  my  lone  soul  with  rapture's  crown: 
What  dews  of  other  paths,  my  life  may  keep, 
Thy  one,  blent,  burning  stream  flows  to  its  deep. 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  53 

As  grieved  Properzia  Eossi  cut  the  veins 
Ol  marble,  to  a  lovely  image  wrought, 
So  would  I,  in  the  future's  sweet  refrains, 
Leave  closes  of  the  strain  thy  love  hath  taught ; 
Something  of  me  to  live,  for  that  bright  sake, 
Where  other  hearts  may  learn  to  live  and  break; 
For  this  my  heart  shall  know  sublimities, 
Under  the  fiery  struggle  overcome. 
Loving  in  patience  till  I  find  its  peace, 
Like  some  deep,  placid  stream  far  from  its  source 
Of  broken  spray,  dashed  rocks,  and  rushing  foam, 
Grown  into  calm,  bright  beauty  on  its  course.'' 

XII. 

"  My  child,  why  linger  long,  and  sadly  here ; 

Last  eve  you  were  the  comforter,  thy  clear 

And  patient  eyes,  defying  sleep  and  woe  ! 

Come  with  me  !  Leave  this  place  of  death  !"  and  low 

The  gentle  mother  drew  upon  her  breast, 

The -drooping  head  she  tenderly  caressed. 

"  Tell  me  what  painful  thoughts  have  so  distressed 

Of  late  thy  chastened  spirit  ?  child  so  dear ; 

Confide  them  to  thy  mother  without  fear ! 

Thy  father's  death?  'tis  more  !  I  see  it  swell 

Thy  troubled  bosom,  like  a  restless  spell. 

When  home  at  Olevano  wilt  thou  tell 

The  secret  sorrow  to  my  heart,  so  well 

Thy  place  of  fond  repose,  thy  refuge  e'er, 

Dove  of  my  lonely  life  ? — and  now  prepare  ! 

The  Cardinal  Capano  will  return 

With  us  to  Naples."     Ere  the  sun  did  burn 

The  sky  at  noon-day,  they  were  on  their  way — 

Haste  and  discomfort,  not  more  than  delay. 


OOZENZA. 


andiiit. 


I. 


Those  classic  roads  of  uAuld  lang  Syne," 
"Well  known  beyond  all  pen  of  mine, 
Where  poor  Lipari  saltworkers 
Came  out,  and  did  a  few  things  worse 
Than  gath'ring  salt,  (I  mean  of  course) — 
They  e'en  ignored  a  Cardinal's  curse, 
While  going  for  his  watch  and  purse  ; 
Or  held  him  till  a  ransom  came, 
As  eminent,  as  his  Eminence'  name. 
Although  this  way  they  often  risked  disasters, 
The  pay  was  much  more  than  a  few  piasters, — 
The  scanty  earnings  of  a  toilsome  day, 
On  which  they  scarce  could  live. 

II 

The  sunlight's  ray 

Is  needed  that  a  flow'r  may  bloom  in  play 
Of  golden  winds.     The  fervor  of  man's  heart 
Is  governed  by  condition — to  depart 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  55 

From  brilliancy  of  purpose — high  intent ; — 
And,  wilted,  faded,  bloomless,  oft  is  bent 
To  blight's  ignominy.     A  human  life 
Is  but  a  gladiator  in  the  strife 
Of  toil's  arena.     But  where  softly  blows 
The  garden  full  of  perfumes,  round  the  rose, 
Perceptible  the  influence  ;  and  soon, 
It  lifts  its  balmy  sweetness  to  the  glows 
Of  morning,  and  of  evening,  and  of  noon. 
The  one,  with  effort,  may  still  find  defeat  : 
The  other,  cannot  help  but  to  be  sweet, — 
If  this  be  palliation,  let  it  be 
Atonement  for  the  men  of  Lipari ; 
And  cite  the  judgments  of  defying  caste — 
There  still,  must  be  a  first,  and  still,  a  last. 
This  is  as  it  should  be:  but  the  extremes, 
Like  torrents  confluent,  from  rippling  streams, 
That  in  their  separate  beauty  might  be  fair, 
Submerge  and  overwhelm  all,  with  despair 

HI. 

So;  Capano  being  a  Cardinal, 

With  carriages,  outriders,  in  fact,  all 

Appurtenances  of  religious  rank; — 

The  other  fellows  hid  behind  a  bank, 

Desp'rate  with  poverty's  oppression, — lank 

And  lean  with  woful  want, — inheriting  the  land 

Of  famed  Tiberius — infamous  Ferdinand: 

We  cannot  pardon — but  we  understand 

Why  ev'ry  second  man  is  a  Brigand : 

Rough  fragments  of  the  bright  Brait's  edges  they — 


56  COZENZA. 

Still  gems,  though  cut  from  the  great  gem  away. 

Capano  heard  the  Countess'  tale  of  woe, — 

Having  arrived  that  morn  from  Reggio, 

And  passing  onward  to  a  distant  port; — 

He  thus  could  give  the  ladies  his  escort. 

Small  boats  were  anchored  where  the  Islands  lay ; 

To  these,  their  journey  easy,  day  by  day, 

Just  taking  needful  rest  along  the  way  ; 

Avoiding  all  the  ills  of  civil  strife 

That  darkened  Naples,  and  Palermo  life. 

IV. 

Capano  was  Caldara's  uncle;  that, 

Accounts  for  things  not  mentioned — but  apparent ; 

He  had  received  the  news  from  this  knight-errant: 

As  for  the  rest — he  was  good  natured, — fat, 

A  loyal,  pious,  old  aristocrat, 

Unconscious  of  his  nephew's  lib'ral  views — 

An  old  friend  of  the  Count  de  Olevano, 

Of  whom,  the  late  demise  was  startling  news. 

And  much  deplored  by  Cardinal  Capano. 

But  now  his  friendly  aid — the  journey  taken 

Had  interruption  rude,  and  cause  to  waken 

Their  thoughts  from  the  late  grief,  and  future  plans, 

"When  captured,  as  they  were,  by  the  Brigands, 

V. 

They  had  gone  onward  to  the  mountains,  east, 
That  circle  half  the  city  from  the  north — 
But  now  no  hope  of  being  soon  released. 
A  special  ransom,  was  Capano  worth  ; 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  57 

And  prudently,  that  morning  he  had  come — 

His  journey  needed  but  a  trifling  sum — 

He  could  not,  therefore,  pay  it  then,  but  waited; 

And  loudly,  the  bandits,  meanwhile  berated. 

We  dwell  not  in  Etolia's  deep  distress ; 

And  for  her  sake,  her  mother's  not  the  less; — 

Soon  they  were  hurried  to  a  mountain  cave, 

With  such  respect  and  gallantry  as  have 

A  blended  heritage  in  man's  strong  heart. 

Even  when  chance  and  time  have  driven  apart 

The  agitated  links  of  tender  thought, — 

Which  love  maternal,  earlier  had  taught, — 

Into  distorted  things  all  fiery  wrought ; 

And  melted  idealities  of  youth, 

Have  paled  to  coldest  iron  bands  of  truth. 

VI. 

Salvator  Rosa  !  genius,  who  portrayed 

The  storm  in  the  thick  forest,  that  dismayed 

Its  utter  silence  j  who,  by  stricken  trees, 

Waited  to  watch  the  lightning's  mysteries 

Transfix  themselves  in  darkness,  and  the  low 

And  thunder-trembled  clouds  blinding  the  glow; — 

Serenity,  not  there;  the  sleep  of  gold 

That  heaves  in  the  soft  sunset — never  told  ! 

So  had'st  thou  marked  each  darkly  splendid  face 

Of  desperate  Salluzzi,  and  his  band, 

With  painting's  touch,  some  glory's  mist  to  trace, 

That  lives  in  pathos,  as  another  land. 


58  COZENZA. 

VII. 

Etolia  trembling,  softly  walked  beside 
Her  mother ;   closely  veiled,  as  if  to  hide 
Hei  grief  renewed,  and  slightly  fearful,  as 
A  frightened  child,  who  danger's  paint  must   pass. 
The  Countess'  passive  pale  hands  sought  her  cross 
And  Rosary — "  O  child  !  had  we  not  loss 
And  sorrow  comfortless  enough,  that  this 
Deserveless  fate  of  fortune  we  might  miss  ?" 
As  the  deep  winds  thrill  over  shattered  chords, 
The  tremors  of  great  grief  disturbed  her  words  ; 
And  on  her  wet,  wan  cheek  of  quivering  pride, 
The  dignity  and  suffering  vainly  vied. 
What  said  Etolia  ? — little — she,  too,  wept, 
Except  some  words  ot  hope,  scarce  firmly  kept — 
She  clasped  the  cold  and  yielding  hand,  and  led 
Her  mother  slowly,  with  unlifted  head. 

VIII. 

The  home  of  the  untoiling,  free  Brigand 

Is,  usually,  the  same  in  ev'ry  land  : — 

From  Meteora's  grassy,  hollow  hills. 

To  where  the  shadow  of  Ciphissus  thrills 

The  caves  that  Phidias  cleft; — the   tumbled   stone 

Of  gloried,  lonely,  ancient  Selinon;21 

And  near  the  tomb-built  chamber  of  Theron: — 

There  the  black  steed  is  tied  ;  and  there   the  base 

Of  some  weed-covered  column,  serves  as  place 

For  the  repast  at  noon, — the  short  light  sleep 

That,  feared  reprisal,  keeps  from  falling  deep. 


A   TALE    OF    ITALY.  59 

tt. 

Salluzzi  Castrucci,  was  quiet,  stern; 

And  seemed  not  what  he  was, — one  scarce  would 

turn 

To  note  him  twice:  the  short  unrippling  tress 
Of  glossy  sable,  touched  his  forehead  less, 
Than  the  great  shadows  of  his  painful  heart, 
That  o'er  its  blue-veined  light,  at  times  did  start. 
His  hands  were  beautiful  and  small;  and  fleet 
Might  be  his  indolent  and  easy  feet: 
And  much  of  latent  strength  and  manly  grace, 
Endowed  the  robust  shoulders.     His  sad  face, 
Despite  the  weariness  upon  it  set, 
Had  brows  like  crescent  night :  a  coronet 
Could  not  have  veiled  his  blue  eyes'  secret  gloom, 
Nor  madte  the  pale  rose  on  his  cheek  to  bloom. 
He  seemed,  with  nonobservance  of  things  fit, 
To  be  a  king, — though  he  was  a  Bandit. 
He  gave,  with  certain  orders  and  detail, 
Word  to  send  onward  to  Mazara's  vale — 
And  there  confine  within  Segesta's  grot — 
The  noble  captives  that  were  lately  brought ; 
That,  all  supliance  of  release,  be  nought, 
Until  the  ransom  should  be  paid,  he  sought : 
And  that,  with  all  respect,  and  gentle  care, 
The  ladies  be  conducted,  safely  there. 

X. 

Swartly  and  fierce,  were  many  of  the  men, 
Standing  around  a  fireplace  in  their  den: 
Numerous  bottles,  claret  and  champagne, 


60  COZENZA. 

The  long  and  highly  polished  Board  did  stain  ; 
And  some,  with  broken  necks,  were  spurted  at 
The  irate  Cardinal  who  struggling,  sat 
In  a  large  leathern  chair,  raised  on  a  cask. 
"  Give  us  your  benediction  :"  they  would  ask; 
"You're  the  holiest  target  that  we've  had  ; — 
And,  master  of  festivities,  old  lad! 
Don't  kick  $  and  we'll  untie  you  by  and  by" 
And  here,  some  random  cork  would  hit  his  eye. 
Thus  did,  their  festal  time,  the  hours  prolong 
With  toast,  and  revel  5  careless  wit,  arid  song; 
For  not  till  midnight,  would  they  journey  take 
To  old  Segesta,  over  dale  and  brake — 
And  this,  was  only  one  of  eight  or  ten 
'   Lone  mountain  caves,  resorted  by  these  men : 
Across  a  winding  passage,  was  another,   • 
And  smaller  chamber,  warmly  tapestried  : 
The  chiseled  rock,  by  soft  rich  hangings  hid. 
This  was  assigned  Etolia  and  her  mother, 

XI. 

The  loving  daughter,  here  again  essayed 

The  task  of  comforter;  with  art,  portrayed 

The  rest  and  rescue,  a  few  patient  days 

Would  bring.     The  moonlight's  fall  of  silver  rays 

Fell  on  the  divan  where  the  Countess  lay: 

The  daughter  marked  the  hours  ere  coming  day, 

And  then,  the  pillow,  changed  another  way; 

And,  when  with  weariness  the  mother  slept, 

More  easy  grew  the  watch  Etolia  kept. 

Near,  was  a  window,  or  the  rifted  stone, 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  61 

Through  which  the  pale  and  purple  starlight  shone, 

Need  we. to  tell  to  loving  hearts  that  muse, 

"What  name,  did  then  upon  her  thoughts  infuse 

Its  deep,  o'ermastering  power  ?   One   more  look, 

To  see  if  any  wakeful  tremor  shook 

The  wearied  mother  lying  now  so  still, 

Eesting,  and  sleeping  fitfully.     "  She  will 

A  moment  miss  me  not  ?" — self  questioning; — 

Just  then,  a  nightingale  let  fall  his  wing, 

And  in  the  dusty  thicket  stayed  to  sing. 

She  longed  to  feel  the  outside  perfumes  fling 

Their  starlit  ambience  on  her  cheek's  hot  flush: 

She  rose;  and,  with  examining  light  push, 

Parted  the  folds  of  heavy  tapestry, 

Through  which  streamed  down  the  brilliant, 

studded  sky, 

Disclosing  interlacing  shrubs  and  vines, 
Around  the  rocks  in  delicate  outlines ; 
And  these  dividing  with  her  hands,  she  stood 
One  moment  more  in  the  deep  underwood : 
And  faint,  the  mirthful  din  and  robbers'  shout, 
Around  the  echo  cave,  came  ringing  out. 
Standing  in  silence,  ere  she  moved  again, 
Was  that  a  woman's  voice  whose  sweet   refrain, 
In  that  dread,  lawless  place,  devotion  sung, 
With  love's  forgiving   and  impassioned  tongue  ? — 
Amid  the  revel,  strangely,  sweetly  clear 
Its  aicful  sympathy  fell  on  her  ear. 


COZENZA. 
XII. 

SONG  OF  THE  BANDIT'S  BRIDE. 

"  Oh  at  a  leaflet's  breath  to  start, 

And  listen  for  thy  step; 
When  from  the  mountain's  rifted  heart, 

The  torrent  floweth  deep  ! 

"  Oft  wild  and  weary  coming  back, 
Not  bough,  nor  wave,  nor  air, 

Breathes  aught  of  crime,  or  danger's  track,- 
Concealing  danger's  snare  ? 

"Upon  the  night,  my  soul  would  melt, 
Though  dark  seawinds  have  scorn ; 

Thy  scattered  leaves  of  rose,  I  felt ; 
My  heart  kneels  on  its  thorn. 

*'  When  in  some  mountain's  hollow  crest, 

No  banner's  noble  fold 
To  wrap  thy  bleeding,  dying  breast, 

Thou'rt  lying  lone,  and  cold: 

"  Or  when  from  danger's  daring  tryst,— 

My  happy  footsteps  sped, 
As  oft  to  meet  thee,— ah,  when  missed  5 

They  carry  thee  in  dead  ! 

"  0  mountain  rover!  this  thy  love 

That  reaches  unto  grief! 
Thou  canst  not  fly  !  0  wounded  dove ! 

0  starlight  bright  and  brief ! 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  63 

4 'Thou  art  not  sunlight,  though  on  high 

Thou  buruest  pure  and  true  ; 
0  wounded  dove  !  thou  canst  not  fly 

From  where  the  arrow  flew  !" 

XIII. 

The  song  was  over  ,  and  she  waited  still, 

To  feel  its  after  silence'  tender  thrill — 

And  half  unconscious,  till  a  quick  faint  wail 

She  heard,  and    hastened  through  the  shrubbery's 

vail, 

Into  the  rocky  chamber.     Oh  what  sight 
Before  her  eyes !  or  did  she  see  aright  ? 
She  did  not  know  Salluzzi  from  the  rest, 
But  by  the  star  and  dagger  on  his  breast ; 
And  Ave  Maria !  beside  it  pressed 
Her  lovely  mother's  white  and  stricken  face 
On  which  remained  the  cast  of  beauty's    grace- 
One  startled  moan  !  she  flew  to  her  dear  place  : 
"With  incoherent  questions  answered  not, 
Even,  the  intruder's  presence,  she  forgot — 
Chafing  the  languid  hands,  and  kissing  them, 
With  sobbing  words  of  bitterest  self-blame, 
And  calling  often,  on  her  mother's  name. 

XIV. 

Salluzzi,  who  till  now  half  leaned,  half  knelt, 
Back  on  the  pillow,  gently  laying  down 
The  fair  form  from  which  life  seemed  to  have  flown, 
Upon  the  forehead  and  the  slight  wrist,  felt; 
And  knitting  his  dark  brows,  his  glance  grew  stern 


64  COZENZA. 

With  pains  appeal  to  that,  not  coming  back — 
The  soul  5  decided,  and  resistless  thing, 
That,  ere  departing,  lingered,  fluttering— 
The  eyelids  that  would  ne'er  again  upturn — 
The  pale  small  lips'  strange  speeches,  murmurings — 
Asking,  where  was  she  ?  on  what  unknown  track  ? 
Then  once  more  folding,  like  two  weary  wings, 
And  falling  into  short  and  broken  sleep : 
And  thus  the  slow,  long  night  away  did  creep  ; 
Salluzzi  staid — seeing  Etolia  weep  : — 

xv. 

''Maiden,  thou  dost  not  ask  wherefore  nor  why 
Thy  gentle  mother  is  about  to  die  ? 
If  I  should  let  it  happen,  saying  nought, 
Thy  misery  would  be  more  and  overwrought. 
She  will  recover,  for  a  little  while, 
To  reassure  thee  with  her  tender  smile  ; 
To  do  me  justice,  and  to  tell  to  thee 
What  e'er  she  wills  of  this  night's  mystery." 
"  Alas  my  mother !  she  can  bear  no  more  ! 
Though  anger  or  surprise  my  heart  o'er  come, 
My  lips  before  thee,  Chieftain,  still  are  dumb. 
If  I  withhold  reproach  I  do  implore 
The  cause  of  this :  I  own  thy  fearful  power — 
And  yet,  reliance  place  on  thee,  this  hour." 

XVI. 

"  Maiden,  I  knew  thy  mother  ere  thy  birth  ; 
She  was  the  one  I  loved  the  best  on  Earth : 
But,  as  I  loved  her,  even  so,  thy  sire 


A   TALE    OF    ITALY.  65 

Made  her  the  star  of  his  one  hope's  desire — 
He  won  her — for  his  name  and  rank  were  higher. 
Her  proud  parents  turned  the  wavering  scale  ; 
What  was  her  yielding  will — my  woe's  avail: 
I  wandered :  and  the  sun  and  moon  seemed  fire : 
And  never,  since  that  day,  did  hope  aspire. 
Behold  she  lived  for  him — 0  beauteous  girl ! 
Fair  was  she,  like  thee — lip,  and  eye,  and  curl ; 
But  now,  there  lying,  like  a  faded  pearl 
Lost  from  its  setting ;  after  many  years, 
She  gives  to  me  her  death,  and  memory's  tears. 
I  knew  her  when  your  captors  brought  her    here  ; 
She  saw  not  me;  I  did  not  then  appear; 
For  what  has  happened,  I  had  prescient  fear: 
And  wouldst  thou  not  that  it  should  be  alone 
With  none  to  witness  it  ? — That  trembling   moan 
Fortells  that  she  revives— I  will  be  gone." 

XVII. 

The  Countess  never  lifted  her  closed  eyes: 
Her  murmuring  lips  gave  incomplete  replies, 
Until  three  days  were  past:  then  Death,  more  light 
And  merciful,  than  life's  long  weary  blight, 
Released  the  patient  sufferer.     She  died 
In  the  lone  cavern  by  the  mountain  side. 
Let  us  pass  by  the  nearest  days  that  came 
To  poor  Etolia:  they  were  as  when  flame 
Is  quen  ched  by  smoke  ;  but  ever  hath  relief 
Come  unto  youth  in  time — what  e'er  the  grief. 


66  COZENZA. 


GAlf? 


he    fflarrraae  in    the    fl.atern. 


I. 

A  horse  of  noble  strength,  and  grace  ; — • 
A  rider  on  a  high  sloped  place  ; 
Whose  beaten  track  for  way-farers — 
Led  on,  to  where  sound  rarely  stirs ; 
Far  from  the  thicket's  orange  bush 
Where  night-birds  thrill  the  evening's  hush: 
As  nearer  grew,  the  mountain  range, — 
Immersed,  his  thoughts,  with  event  strange 
Till  on  the  summit,  turned,  to  cast 
A  glance  at  the  bright  scene,  he'd  past. 

II. 

White  Pyramids  by  Sulphur  mines  22 
Made  sunset  break  in  silver  lines; — 
And  golden  gleams  that  shifting  rose 
And  fell,  like  sudden  firefly  glows. 
While  thus  absorbed,  the  awful  sound, 
"Non  Senti?  broke  the  stillness  round  ! 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  67 

If  it  was  here,  or  there, — the  shock, 
He  knew  not:  if  behind  the  rock 
A  few  feet  distant — captors  near, — 
Then  captive  he,  to  bandits  here. 
He  quick  obeyed  the  dread  command 
To  rein  his  horse,  dismount,  and  stand  ! 
In  husky  tones,  each  cruel  word 
And  ruthless  hand,  he  felt  and  heard. 

in. 

('Ho'?    Ladrol  hand  your  money,  here, 
Or  die  !  "Wait  not  one  moment's  fear  ;" 
"Oh  hang  him  now,*'  one  fellow  said, 
"Men  tell  no  tales  when  they  are  dead  !" 
A  dagger's  point,  his  body  felt ; 
And,  from  its  pressure,  downward  knelt : 
He  could  not  breathe,  and  lower  lay 
Where  dust  shut  out  the  light  of  day. 

IV. 

Their  careless  hands  his  pockets  tore, 

Took  watch  and  purse,  and  searched  him  o'er, 

Until  they  thought  he  had  no  more. 

The  captive,  struggling  to  regain 

His  strength  and  feet,  did  not  complain; 

But  cried  aloud  with  high  disdain, 

''What  more  you  ask?  What  other  call? 

Release  me  now  !  you've  taken  all ! 

And,  when  to  safety,  I  succeed, 

I'll  send  you  more — if  more  you  need." 

Then  whispering  some,  they  disagreed  ; — 


68  COZENZA. 

The  scene  another  aspect  wore: — 
"I'll  have  it  so  !"  the  leader  swore. 
The  captive  trembling,  heard  j  and  then, 
He  found,  his  watch,  put  back  again; 
And,  scarce  believing,  soon  his  purse 
Replaced.     Again:  the  same  voice  terse, 
As  though  from  those  lips,  it  were  well 
A  cataract  stay  its  thundering  swell — 
"A  little  while,  move  not:  take  heed! 
Then  mount  your  horse;  and  onward  speed: 
Since  now  we  leave  you,  look  not  back. 
Till  distant  far,  your  traveled  track: 
A  ball  shall  whistle  through  your  brain, 
If  heedless,  to  my  warning  plain. 
Now  promise  that  you  tell  no  tales." — 
"  I  do,7'  he  answered,   "  What  avails 
To  swear,  because,  I  swear  not  ever  ?" 
"Farewell ! — I  thank  you — here  we  sever  !'? 

V, 

The  bandit  steps  receded  then — 
The  steps  of  more  than  twenty  men  ; 
And,  when  around  the  mountain  side, 
Their  parting  echoes  faintly  died: — 
The  captive  rose  from  where  he  lay; 
And  mounted,  rode  he  on  his  way. 
His  mind  with  trouble, — troubled  yet — 
But  all  things  else — portmanteau  set — 
And  strapped  in  faithful  order,  as 
Before  his  venture  in  the  pass : 
Discordant,  so  the  whole  thing  seemed — 
His  brain  felt,  as  if  he  had  dreamed. 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY. 

• 
VI. 

Released,  and  once  more  on  his  way  — 

It  now  was  near  the  close  of  day  : 

Bat,  Hark  !  behind  him  hoofs  astir  !-^- 

What  sound  upon  the  wind's  swift  whirr  ?  — 

A  distant  rider  under  spur  — 

Had  he  more  venture  to  incur, 

'Ere  half  a  mile  he  scarce  had  gone  ? 

Should  he  more  swiftly  hasten  on  ? 

The  robbers  had,  on  more  debate, 

Determined  sure  to  end  his  fate  ? 

With  these  foredoomed  anxieties, 

Instinctively,  he  onward  flies  ; 

And  often  strokes  his  startled  horse, 

And  faster  flies  along  his  course: 

To  turn  his  head,  he  does  not  dare  — 

Remembering  the  warning  fair  — 

He  knew  all  that  he  had  incurred, 

And  knew  Banditti  kept  their  word  ; 

Not  always,  others  —  'tis  averred, 

VII. 

In  midst  of  his  conflicting  thought, 
His  path  beside,  a  horseman  sought  : 
fi  Vive  Maria  /"  —  soft  salute, 
"The  night  is  beautiful  and  mute  ?" 
uYes;  pleasant,  very!"  answered  he; 
"  Is  it  less  dangerous,  if  we 
Ride  on  in  friendly  company  ?" 
The  dead  leaf  with  the  caverned  wind;  — 
The  sunset's  glory,  sealed  and  signed; 


^Xr^ 

f 

(UNI 

V 


'A>ssv 

OF  THE  r        >. 

UNIVERSITY) 

OF  / 


70  COZENZA. 

The  roadway  trouble,  left  behind; — 
Now  calmer,  grew  his  startled  mind: — 
Not  sullen  watch,  but  guarded  care 
Imbued  this  cautious  wayfarer. 

VIII. 

The  stranger  touched  his  falling  plume. 
In  cautious  speech,  and  did  resume. — 
"Have  you  seen  any  on  this  road? 
And  are  you  armed?  if  so: — 'tis  good?" 
'*  What  should  one  meet  in  this  lone  place, 
But  scenic  beauty — nature's  grace; 
The  solemn  rock,  the  climbing  goat, 
The  Cascade's  falling  sound,  remote; 
And  as  for  arms, — why  should  I  draw 
Upon  their  strength  ?  the  firmest  awe 
That  ever  quickened  fierce  combat — 
A  conscience  good — what  more  than  that? 
Menacing  word, — foreboding  sign, 
Each  terrible,  majestic  line, 
Leads  after  this  one  line  of  law. 
The  beam  which  parts  the  dawning  frown, 
Will  see  me  at  the  nearest  town — 
Know  you  ?     No  !    But,  if  right,  I  think, 
As  waters  fall  upon  the  brink 
Of  some  familiar,  fountain  stone, 
Beside  which  at  some  time  I  lay, 
And  watched  the  sky  beyond  its  spray, 
Your  voice  to  me's  a  sound  well  known." 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  71 

IX. 

They  now  had  reached  a  steeper  hill 

That  rose  upon  their  left.     The  trill 

Of  some  embosomed,  woodland  stream, 

Fell  softly  on  the  ear; — a  dream 

Of  peace,  and  moonlight,  pure  and  calm, — 

Transfixed,  the  cactus;  drooped,  the  palm: 

The  loaded  orange,  golden  pale; 

The  muleteers  adown  the  vale  ; 

And  old  Segesta's  Temples  bare, 23 

Against  the  night,  told  where  they  were. 

Here,  the  intruding  stranger,  showed 

A  path,  which  led  from  the  main  road, 

Ascending,  tortuous,  and  steep, 

Where  lay  the  rivulet  asleep  : 

But  in  this  fair  Idalian  grove, 

Now  sudden  stopped  the  two,  and  strove. 

x. 

Quick  as  a  flash, — as  quickly  flew 

Our  halted  journeyer,  and  drew 

A  pistol  from  the  saddle  bow, 

And  fiercely  eyed  his  unknown  foe. 

"  Come  now  what  will !  We're  man  to  man  ! 

This  difference  may  change  your  plan  ; 

I  do  not  mean  to  die,  ere  you 

Find  me  avenged,  and  have  your  due  !" 

"  Put  by  your  weapon  !  Had  I  thought 

Of  harm  'twere  not  your  side  I  sought : 

I  am  a  friend,  as  you  will  see, 

Ride  close  !  Eide  on ;  and  follow  me  !" 


72  COZENZA. 

XI. 

Circuitous  and  narrow  ways; 

Ascending  and  descending  maze, — 

Where  borders  of  a  deep  ravine 

Above  a  shallow  torrent  lean : — 

And  here,  the  guide  made  him  alight  1 

For  now  all  things  between  them  —right. 

Who  was  he,  for  whom  things  amiss 

Were  thus  made  right,  as  seen  in  this  ? 

I  need  not  tell  Cozenza's  name, — 

As  he,  to  whom  the  stranger  came; 

I  need  not  say  the  ambient  cloud 

Is  gold,  because  the  sun  allowed ; 

Nor,  that  the  trembling,. emerald  sea 

Is  deep  with  troublous  melody : 

The  stranger  felt  unworthily, 

So  great  his  own  humility  ; 

But  knew  the  leader  of  his  land, 

And  scarce  did  dare  to  touch  his  hand — 

While  ready  to  go  on,  or  stand, — 

No  true  respect  could  greater  be — 

Such  Brotherhood's  Carbonari. 

Thus  he  would  live  or  die  for  him  , 

And  said,  while  tears  his  eyes  did  dim: — 

"  I  know  what  you  are  ;  and  what  I ! — 

You,  live  for  right, — for  wrong  I  die !" 

XII. 

His  boots,  hid  in  a  thicket — lain 
Concealed,  he  found  a  pair  more  plain  : — 
With  pointed  nails,  the  soles  were  set — 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  73 

A  man  appeared,  to  whom,  were  let 
The  horses.     Here  the  guide  prepared 
For  perilous  descent ;  and  shared 
His  steady  foot-hold  with  his  friend  ;— 
Down,  slow,  together,  they  did  tend. 

• 

XIII. 

Still  on  precipitous,  and  softly  down  ; — 
At  last,  the  torrent  where  a  log  was  thrown, 
Which  made  a  passage  to  the  other  side — 
Cozenza  following  his  friendly  guide. 
Impenetrable  rock,  smooth,  dark,  and  steep, 
Where  low  shrubs,  and  the  trees,  deep  vigils  keep — 
Once  more,  a  rocky  bank  half  way  to  climb, 
And  then  Borghetto's  tower  tolled  midnight  chime. 
At  this  lone  spot,  the  guide  with  sure  intent 
Parted  a  heavy  bush,  that  lowly  bent, 
Eevealing  entrance  to  a  grotto.     Clear 
He  whistled;  and  a  noise  inside  was  heard 
In  answer;  and  an  undistinguished  word — 
And  drawing  of  a  bolt  by  some  one  near. 

XIV. 

His  shoulder  then  he  placed  against  the  rock, 
And  slowly  turned  it  with  a  little  shock. 
On  entering,  back  the  stone  rolled  into  place, 
And  on  the  night  outside  left  not  a  trace.  • 
" Salluzzi  is  it  you?"  a  woman's  voice 
Said,  half  in  fear,  too  anxious  to  rejoice. 
"Yes,  good  Concetta!    Did  Lavagna  come, 
And  bring  his  prisoner  ?    How  have  you  cared 


74  COZENZA. 

The  lady  sorrowing  and  orphaned  late  ? 
Here  is  a  guest.     Give  him  the  silken  room  ; 
And  let  a  costly  supper  be  prepared." — 
At  all  of  this,  Cozenza  listening  stared, 
And  marveled,  silently,  his  changeful  fate. 
Cancetta  was  the  singer,  whose  sweet  song 
Etolia's  startled  thoughts  remembered  long : — 
Arid  this  Concefcta  was  so  good  and  kind, 
To  sorrowing  Etolia,  that  her  mind 
Had,  like  a  flower  beaten  by  the  rain, 
Lifted  from  drooping,  its  sweet  bloom  again. 
Here  need  we  tell  the  reader,  that  they  met 
Who  late  were  parted  with  such  keen  regret  ? 
And  soon  the  Cardinal,  his  ransom  sent, 
Would  haste  to  Rome  with  direful,  deep  intent. 
Against  Salluzzi  and  his  mountain  band — 
Forthwith  exterminate  them,  from  the  land. 

xv. 

One  day  Salluzzi  said:   "  I  understand,' 
We  have  a  little  mystery  on  hand  ; — 
Those  two,  that  lately  met  here,  lovers  are  ; 
And  you,  Capano,  are  the  lucky  star, 
Resplendent  o'er  their  fortunes,  eh,  my  friend  ! 
To  marry  them,  and  all  their  troubles  end  ?" 
"Holy  St.  Francis,"  said  his  Eminence, 
Alas  !  'I  feel  departing  my  last  sense 
And  ray  of  reason  !  No  !  I  had  decreed, 
To  take  her  with  me,  certainly,  when  freed  : 
She  is  a  destined  clausura,  you  know 
For  holy  San  Gregorio  Armeno." 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  75 

"No  No!  I  think  not,"  said  Salluzzi,   "try 

What  to  all  this,  Etolia  will  reply." 

And,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  whatever  word 

Faint  and  inaudible,  Etolia  heard, 

In  murmurs  low,  the  day  her  mother  died, — 

She  had  on  stern  Salluzzi  since  relied — 

No  scorn  or  anger  tinged  her  modest  pride. 

Etolia's  tested  heart,  in  trial  just, 

Some  terrible  avowal  meekly  made; 

And  questioned  by  the  Cardinal,  she  must 

Tell  of  Cozenza — yea;  and  though  afraid, 

Confessed  the  wish  to  wed  that  renegrade, 

Except  that  she  forbore  repeating  all 

The  titles  giv'n  him  by  the  Cardinal. 

XVI. 

And  they  were  wed  in  that  deep,  Sylvan  dell — 
No  joyous  herald  or  Cathedral  bell; — 
But  hospitable  was  the  mountain  chief — 
The  tapers  lighted,  and  the  myrtle  leaf 
Twined  for  the  festival,  as  though  she  were 
His  own  beloved  child  so  young  and  fair. 
Her  glossy  hair,  around  the  perfect  head, 
In  braids  entwined  with  pearl  in  many  a  strand- 
Rubies,  and  emeralds,  and  diamonds  laid 
On  scarlet  velvet,  for  a  zone  whose  band 
Clasping  her  robe  of  satin  pure  and  white — 
O'er  all  a  vail  of  lace,  cast  radiant  light. 

XVII. 

And  she  was  a  bride;  yet  her  soft  tears  fell : 

She  thought  of  the  mother  who    loved  her  well — 


76  COZENZA. 

Of  the  home  so  far  in  the  mountain  dell 
Whose  stately  old  halls  were  so  silent  now; 
No  echo  had  they  of  her  low  sweet  vow  : 
In  darkness  the  chambers  where  childhood  played; 
Now  no  festal  garlands  around  them  laid — 
But  Olive  drooped  shadow,   and  sun,  and  dew, 
And  the  heavens  of  Neapolitan  blue. 

XVIII. 

The  peace  of  her  sweet  face,  and  happy  heart, 
Happy  at  last  with  him — no  more  to  part — 
No  more  to  part  ?    Alas !  how  few  the  days 
Of  tender  gladness,  like  a  bird's  sweet  song 
That  only  dews  and  flowery  woods  prolong: 
Or,  where  on  morning's  upward  glory  flung 
The  lark's  wing  joyous,  till  his  matin  sung, 
Within  the  brown  grass  on  the  earth,  he  lays 
A  tired,  silent  breast  of  pain  and  praise. 
The  lime  leaves,  and  the  roses,  and  the  air, 
Thrilled  with  the  holy  presence — they  were  there : 
They  touched  the  silvery  sands  ;  and  soon  the  tide 
Kissed  them  with  veneration,  as  they  hied 
Foreve**  hallowed  to  the  deepest  deep, 
That  sanctified,  sweet  memory  to  keep. 
''Let  me  be  with  thee  when  our  rescued  altars, 
All  lighted,  greet  thine  eyes  to  victory  won  ? 
Nay ;  like  the  sun  robed  sea,  my  heart  ne'er  falters. 
From  shore  to  deep,  I  am  thy  wave,  O  sun !" 

XIX. 

uTt  may  not  be,  my  love,"  Cozenza  said; 
"My  country  calls;  and  my  sire's  fallen  head 


A   TALE    OF    ITALY.  77 

Lifts  from  the  sanguine  dust  a  martyr's  brow, 
And  looks  upon  the  auspicious  hour — now. 
Now  is  the  revolution  close,  and  all 
The  sons  of  Sicily  respond  her  call ; 
And  when  I  bear  thee  to  thy  courtly  home, 
Thy  liberator's  name  will  risk  its  dome 
'  Tis  true;  but  with  success  at  last  I'll  come, 
And  triumph  shall  resound  with  trump  and  drum: 
To  this  thy  gentle  thoughts  may  always  tend 
Through  anxious  waiting,  dear,  unto  the  end; 
And  keep  thy  quiet  counsel,  like  the  dove; 
Content  with  loving,  thou  hast  wed  thy  love; 
But  let  none  know  it  till  the  days  have  past 
Of  danger:  haply,  soon  will  be  the  last." 

XX. 

Beyond  St.  Elmo,    the  great  mountain's   crown — 

Beyond  the  tomb  of  Virgil,  nestled  down — 

That  is — if  doubt  will  spare  its  old  renown; — 

The  road  to  Olevauo  from  the  town, 

Beyond  Marti  no  Fidelissima 

Whose  inmates  rarely  speak — such  is  their  law — 

Princely  and  priestly  and  in  history  famed 

For  fierce  rebellions,  and  now  scarcely  tamed; 

But  if,  as  we  are  told,  that  golden  is 

Silence,  there  is  no  need  to  mention  this; — 

But  take  their  good  example — keeping  mum — 

So  much  can  be  implied  by  seeming  dumb; 

Neither  was  Capri  nor  Ischia  seen 

From  Olevano — the  great  mounts,  between:24 

But  often  on  the  balmy  atmosphere 


78  COZENZA. 

Vesuvius'  curling  smoke  seemed  rising  near : 
And  now  Etolia,  in  her  Fathers1  Halls, 
Moved  mid  the  birds,  and  bees,  and  waterfalls. 

XXI. 

Here  a  few  radiant  days,  Cozenza  stayed — 
And  then  the  parting  that  was  long  delayed; 
The  curved  and  grieving  lip,  with  quivering  thrill, 
Fondly  entreated  as  a  woman  will. 
Her  pleading,  failing  heart  adjured  him  oft 
With  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  upward  soft, 
Imploring  glances.     "  Love,  why  stay  not  here  ! 
Too  much  I  love  thee  now — thou  art  too  dear; 
I  do  entreat  thee  it  is  not  too  late — 
Compassion  have  on  me,  and  heed  thy  fate !  . 
Cozenza,  in  God's  name,  and  by  our  love, 25 
What  was  the  sequel  when  thy  father  strove  ? 
Oh  to  some  desert  fly !  and  take  me  there, 
Still  blest  with  love  and  thee — no   matter  where." 

v  xxn. 

And  true  it  was — all  true — the  things  she  told  5 
And  beautiful  their  home — that  castle  old, 
With  marble  and  fine  stone  in  carvings  scrolled. 
To  wander  through  its  halls  was  like  a  dream 
Wondrous  with  statues  ;  and  the  chastened   gleam 
Of  treasured  paintings  every  wall  adorning; 
The  bannered  ivy  on  the  breeze  of  morning 
Through  the  wide  casements  flowing  darkly  green; 
And  over  keep  and  battlement,  a  screen 
Of  densely  waving  beauty — and  the  arch 


A   TALE    OF    ITALY.  79 

Made  circular — and  pillars  slenderly, 
Like  tall,  cliff  shadows  on  a  sunset  sea — 
And  old,  armorial  bearings  of  the  march — 
A  semi-pointed  delicate  arcade — 
The  library  and  drawingroom — and  laid 
The  ceilings  and  the  staircases  with  gold 
And  silver  ornaments  of  richest  mold — 
So  beautiful  this  Roman  castle  old. 
And  many  stories  of  the  ages  gone 
It  might  have  told — 'twas  older  than  Chillon. 
Beside  the  warder's  residence  a  tower, 
And  grassy  courtyard  bright  with  tree   and  flower 
For  now  no  gathering  warriors   mailed  went  forth 
To  burning  Syria  or  the  chilly  north. 
The  gate  doors  heavily  cased  with  iron  plate 
Were  massive  works  of  art  strong  and  ornate : 
On  right  hand  from  this  entrance  was  a  door 
To  chambers  never  used  since  days  of  yore; 
Albiet  for  all  domestic  purpose  fit 
The  portal  was  bricked  up  none  nearing  it : 
But  let  us  dare  to  enter,  list  and  seek; 
And  to  adjure  its  ancient  ghosts  to  speak: 
Dark  emptiness  and  silence  here  recall 
Some  old  dim  record  serving  to  appal, 
Nothing  is  apparent — the  Dining-hall, 
And  kitchen,  and  side  rooms  long  vacant  all — 
Except  a  swinging  bell  whose  dinner  chime 
Called  the  retainers  in  the  olden  time: 
But  ah  !  what  other  service  did  the  bell- 
Did  the  doomed  prisoner  note  its  clanging  knell? 
And  why  that  moldy  stircase  of  dark  stone, 


80  COZENZA. 

Leading  to  chambers  darker  yet  and  lone> 
Downward  beneath  the  Castle's  whole  right  wing  ? 
We  shudder,  and  draw  back — there  is  something 
Weirdly  absorbent  in  that  stairs  of  gloom — 
We  turn  away  in  awe  as  from  a  tomb. 

xxm. 

Dear  reader,  say  not  that  I  have  forgot 
Etolia  and  Cozenza, — I  have  not: 
I  only  lingered  still,  their  parting  o'er, 
As  they  themselves  did  linger,  and  e'ermore 
As  lovers  will  who  part  and  who  adore. 
Heavy,  the  anchors  lift  that  leave  the  shore — 
Each  heart  a  treasure  trove  of  memory 
Never  to  come  again  from  the  deep  sea. 
Never  again,  Etolia,  never  again, 
But  then  thou  didst  not  know  this  dread  sentence' 
pain. 

XIV. 

* 

The  last  eve  came.     Within  her  chamber  praying, 

Etolia  waited,  her  quick  heart  obeying 

The  sound  of  his  approaching  step.     He  came: — 

The  silence  was  a  pang — at  last  her  name  ; — 

Lowly  and  with  a  sob  its  utterance  fell 

From  his  proud  lips, yea,  from  his  deep  heart's  swell, 

As  when  from  Heaven  the  angel  downward  swept. 

It  seemed  to  come  that  little  word.     She  wept; 

And  falling  on  her  knees,  she  clung  to  him  ; — 

He  covered  his  fond  eyes  so  full  and  dim. 

Ah !  let  them  part  j  and  let  us  not  behold 


A   TALE   OF    ITALY.  81 

Those  few  last  moments — that  entwining  fold — 
Until,  from  claspings  close  he  rushed  away — 
Then,  on  her  swooned  eyes,  still  darkness  lay: — 
He  knew  not  this,  and  hastening,  did  not  stay. 
At  outer  gate,  his  faithful  followers  stood 
Waiting  to  guard  his  journey   through    the  wood. 
Glowing,  the  Milky- way's  translucent  path, 
The  splendid  midnight  of  fair  Naples  hath; 
But  what  to  him,  the  light  of  shore  or  sea, 
"Whose  thoughts  were  turbulent  with  memory: 
The  smoking  summit,  and  the  ruined  streets 
Of  Pompeii,  that  near  the  traveler  meets, 
Were  nought  to  him;  his  gloomy  heart  still  turned 
Back  to  Etolia:  then  would  intervene, 
Like  meteors,  through  the  darkness,  brightly  seen — 
The  patriot's  bounding  hopes — his  blue  Tyrrhene 
Emblazoned,  as  with  altar  lights,  it  burned. 

XXV. 

The  mounted  cavalcade  proceeded  slow; 

For  changed  the  night  to  darkness,  from  the  glow, 

As  dark  as  Erebus — the  sheeted  flame 

Of  lightning,  on  it  momentarily  came. 

Hour  after  hour,  they  rode:  at  last,  a  small 

Old  hermitage  they  reached, — alighted  all. 

Before  the  door,  a  few  fine  shady  trees — 

This,  the  abode  of  hospitable  peace — 

An  old  man's  home.     After  the  weary  mules 

Were  cared,  and  he  had  offered  rustic  stools, 

And  all  his  little  store  of  figs  and  wine, — 

He  motioned  to  Cozenza  with  a  sign 


82  COZENZA. 

That  in  the  room  adjoining,  there  then  lay 
Three  English  travelers,  who  at  dawn  of  day, 
Would  climb  Vesuvius,  that  they  might  behold, 
The  sunrise  of  its  glory, — red  and  gold — 
But  if  there  were  some  reason  this  was  told, 
I  know  not.     Then  he  gave  a  packet-fold 
With  much  significance  of  silent  look; 
And  gave  for  autographs,  his   *'  Travelers  Book," 
As  though  the  packet  were  Sisyphus'  Stone, 
And  he  Sisyphus,  to  its  usage  known — 
The  more — he  lived  upon  the  mount  alone, 
And  these  were  strangers  come,  soon   to  be  gone. 

XXVI. 

"  Ah !" — said  Cozenza  to  his  comrade  true, — 
Caldara,  whom,  before  my  reader  knew. 
"  Che  nuovet"  asked  the  others,  "Master, 
Give  us  your  orders,  and  we'll  travel  faster  !n 
"What  news  ?"  they  asked  again.  He  answered — 

"  Brothers 

'Tis  true,  we  more  must   haste  to  join  the  others. 
From  Etna  to  the  Alps,  is  every  heart, 
Ablaze  with  readiness  to  do  its  part : — 
But  well  beware  of  Satriano's  spies, 
And  let  us  leave  here  long  before  sunrise." 
All  this,  in  whispers,  with  directed  eyes 
To  the  partition  of  the  other  room. 
"Amice — friends!  Close  is  the  day  of  doom! 
The  royal  troops  advance  Palermo's  fate ! — 
The  people  fortify  in  haste,  each  gate  ! — 
The  towns  and  villages  are  burned  along 


A   TALE    OF    ITALY.  83 

The  royal  troops'  red  route  of  ghastly  wrong  ! — 
Five  hundred  of  our  men  await  me  where 
The  mountain  peasants  gather, — we'll  be  there  ! 
Not  stronger  burns  Stromboli's  riven  heart 
Than  mine  to  meet  them — let  us  now  depart !" 


84  COZENZA. 


TOff 


he   ;uUmttU88Hri0. 


I. 

Return  to  Olevano  !  The  long  days 

Passed  wearily;  and  oft  Etolia's  gaze 

Would  pierce  the  route  he  had  departed  by : — 

The  gray  came  into  the  November  sky, 

As  turns  the  silvery  white  Magnolia  leaf 

From  its  first  velvet  balm  so  brightly  brief. 

How  were  the  lonesome   days  of  sadness  spent? — 

The  Palace  home  was  but  an  Arab's  tent, 

To  her  love-yearning  heart  that  followed  far, 

Restless,  she  walked  its  colonnades,  and  leant 

Over  their  casements — watched  the  vesper  star 

Until  her  eyes  with  tears  would  fill;  and  she 

Would  turn,  and  play  some  pensive  melody. 

Again,  with  purpose  strong,  upon  the  page 

Of  national  proud  annals,  would  engage 

Her  newly  centered   thoughts.     Thus   she    could 

learn 
His  favored  authors  all,  ere  his  return, — 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  85 

Botta,  Santa  Rosa, — and  other  books, 

That  for  a  decade,  had  not  left  their  nooks,  — 

Great  Macchiavelli,  and  Colletta,  — 

For  books  are  good  things  to  make  one  forget  a 

Heavy  sorrow;  or  at  least — to  hide  it — 

Many  a  one,  besides  Etolia,  tried  it ; 

And  many  little  tri-colors  with  skill 

She  worked,  with  secret  smiles,    at  her  own  will, 

To  see  that  sign  on  gold  and  silver  lace, 

On  cushions,  hangings,  and  on  every  space 

In  those  proud,  ancient  halls  of  royal  grace, 

That  blazed  with  courtly  lineage  gone  before. 

Some  little  thought,  perhaps,  it  cost;  but  more 

Cozenza  was  to  her — "Love   rules    the  Court/' — 

She  did  not  know  our  English  version  for't 

But  then,  she  felt  it:  and  the  camps,  and  groves 

Of  all  her  lineage,  were  not  more  than  Love's. 

II 

At  this  time,  Satriano's  dread  police 

Had  learned  the  secrets  of  this  home  of  peace; 

If  any  home  of  peace  could  then  be  found 

In  all  of  hapless  Naples,  terror  crowned. 

Aiossa  and  his  Sbirro,  fierce  Bruno, 

Silently,  constantly,  as  shadows  go. 

Watched  their  unhappy  victims  doomed;  and  slow 

The  Seclia  ardente,  the  warm  chair, 

Pontillo  placed  for  them  :  and  vain  the  prayer 

Of  wife,  or  son,  or  daughter,  each  might  die; 

Or,  by  confession,  wrung  from  agony, 

Betray  the  heroism,  betray  the  life 


86  COZENZA. 

Still  dearer  than  their  own.     Such  was  the  strife 
And  dread  alternative  to  the  fond  wife 
Of  troubled  days, — that,  to  his  children  dear, 
The  name  of  patriot  father,  though  sincere, 
Oft  gave  a  double  awe  to  love  and  fear. 

HI.     . 

Turn  to  the  page  of  record !  We  are  told 

Of  iron  rings  of  torture,  made  to  hold 

Limbs  dislocated  from  the  beauteous  mold 

Of  the  good  Creator — extended  arms 

Turned  in  an  instrument,  which  the  base  fiend 

Luigi  Maniscalco  named;  and  screened, 

Beneath  his  malice,  mockery's  alarms, 

La  Macchina  Angelica  'twas  called, 

The  deadly  humor  of  the  thing,  appalled. 

The  old  man,  and  the  lovely  woman  who 

Was  with  holy  motherhood  invested, 

Suffered  alike — if  e'en  suspicion  threw 

The  name  of  patriot  o'er  them,  they  were  tested. 

There  is  a  special  mention  made  of  two, 

At  Morreale,  who  were  stripped,  and  beat 

Till  they  expired  at  their  tormentors'  feet, 

IV. 

Neath  thy  cloud  canopy,  O  Constantine  ! 
The  Commissaries s  cross, — black  fatal  sign ; 
And  this,  on  Olevano's  outer  gate, 
One  morn  was  seen — portentous  of  its  fate — 
Under  strict  surveillance,  this  meant, — beware ! 
Etolia  had  received  a  letter,  late 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  87 

That  very  morn  —  so  glad  and  grateful,  there, 
Thanking  the  Grod  of  journeyers,  that  he 
Had  safely  reached  his  own  bright  Sicily  — 
Her  husband  !  her  adored  and  loving  lord  !  — 
And  long  she  lingered,  reading  every  word 
Of  his  dear  message:  —  and  what  secret,  she 
Would  tell  him  joyous  in  its  mystery  — 
What  might  she  promise,  his  return  should  see. 
Mater  admirabilis  !  always  thou, 
A  trembler  in  thy  joy  and  love  as  now  ! 


But  Hark  !  The  heavy  iron  ball  that  swings 

At  Olevano's  gate,  against  it  rings  ! 

Strangers,  and  clamorous  with  haste  !  again 

^Repeating  the  quick  summons,  —  answered,  —  when 

They  asked  for  her  !    A  party  of  three  men  — 

They  were  a  sort  of  Hydra  altogether, 

The  Commissario,  Morbili,  rather. 

Morbili  !  Heaven  and  Earth  !  that  fearful  name; 

Condemned  synonym,  of  the  blackest  blame. 

As  a  scroll  withers  in  remorseless  flame  ;  — 

As  a  frost  falling,  brings  a  flower  blight  :  — 

So,  on  Etolia  their  dread  summons  came  ; 

And  yet  she  met  them  with  a  footstep  light, 

And  bade  them  seated  be,  with  easy  grace:  — 

And  firmly  unperturbed,  her  lovely  face. 

Morbili  and  his  spies  —  yes  !  there  they  sat  ;  — 

Each  one,  a  species  of  colossal  rat; 

Morbili's  eyes  were  set,  and  looking  at 

A  paper  lying  on  the  table  near.  — 


88  COZENZA. 

"  Signora,  if  you  please,  just  hand  that  here  !" 

At  this,  Etolia's  heart  felt  secret  fear; 

But  there's  a  sort  of  courage  giv'n  the  weak— 

With  dignity  she  rose — essayed  to  speak ; 

And  gave  the  harmless  paper  he  had  asked, — 

The  precious  and  sweet  letter  in  her  breast 

Was  safe  concealed;  and,  for  the  first  time  tasked, 

She  felt  her  fervid  soul  a  battery  masked* 

Though  outwardly,  so  calm  in  gracious  rest. 

VI. 

Th'accuser's  face  was  red,  and  round,    and  large  ; 

His  voice  pitched  like  the  Boatswain's   of  a  barge : 

Another,  sitting  on  the  divan,  read 

The  usual  formula  when  making  charge 

Of  conspiracy :  some  incipient  dread 

Had  gathered  all  the  servants  round  the  door, 

To  listen  while  he  read  the  charges  o'er  ; 

And  then  with  cries  and  lamentations,  they 

Gathered  about  their  lady,  like  the  spray 

That  round  a  white  wave  goes  to  share  its  shock 

On  the  relentless  and  reboundless  rock. 

"As  for  these  servants — let  them  all  depart 

Unto  their  several  homes ;  lest  they  too,  share 

The  doom  of  treason's  treacherous  despair!" 

Their  desolation  and  her  own  did  start 

Upon  Etolia's  mind. — "Your  power  is  strong;" 

Proudly  she  said; — "  their  grief  concerns  me  now. 

You  know  that  they  are  not  accused  of  wrong ! 

Why  then  bring  sorrow  on  a  guiltless  brow  ? 

You  need  not  crush  !  Your  word  is  strong  to  spare  I 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  89 

And  cannot  some  of  them  remain  with  me?" 
"No!  No!  not  one?"  replied  Duke  Morbili. 

VII. 

Concetta  Lavagna  was  weeping  low, 

And  kneeling,  gently  clasped  her  mistress  hand 

Beside  Etolia's  chair. — Salluzzi's  band, 

Eedeemed,  all  noble  patriots  of  their  land — 

Had  joined  Cozenza,  from  their  mountain  Pass; — 

And  poor  Concetta,  also  here — alas  ! 

To  share  misfortune  where  she  loving  served — 

Experience  with  danger,  long  had  nerved 

Her  faithful  heart,  a  heart  that:  never  swerved. 

VIII. 

With  such  urbanity  as  he  could  use, 

The  Duke  informed  Etolia,  that  she  must 

Eegard  herself — that  is,  should  she  refuse 

To  make  what  statements  he  considered  just — 

Under  his  authoritative  arrest, 

Unless  her  husband's  plottings  she  confest. 

He  was  a  base  insurgent,  was  he  not  ? 

Now  gone  to  Sicily  to  organize, 

Against  the  king,  another  secret  plot — 

But  she  might  her  own  safety  compromise 

By  giving  information  of  his  plans. 

At  this,  the  bright  tears  stood   in  her   sweet  eyes; 

And  sudden  flushed  her  cheeks,  then  paled  as  sands, 

The  bright  tide  had  bereft,  and  trembling  some: 

Morbili  saw  she  was  defiant. — dumb; — 

More  compliant,  and  with  forbearing  look 


90  COZENZA. 

Or,  a  trite  familiarity,  he  took 

Concetta's  hand;  and  lifting  her,  he  said; — 

"Weep  not,  my  pretty  one, — be  not  afraid  ! 

In  your  case,  I  will  say,  you  may  remain; 

And,  on  your  aid,  I  will  rely  to  gain 

Your  mistress  over,  from  her  perverse  mood; 

And,  for  this  purpose,  she  shall  have  some  days- 

Meanwhile,  a  guard  shall  hold  this  rebel  place — 

Until  I  come  again — 'tis  understood: — 

Signora,  one  thing  more, — the  castle's  plan 

I  have  by  me,  avoid,  as  well  you  can, 

The  last  appeal  of  justice.     I  resort, — • 

(Here  his  eyes  swiftly  glanced  across  the  Court.) 

To  the  lone  chambers  long  unoccupied, 

And  subtile  horror  his  quick  glance  implied, 

Meanwhile  continuing  with  desperate  haste, 

As  nervously  his  hand  on  hers  he  placed, 

" 'Tis  true  Signora;  I  resort,  I  said, 

Only  to  measures  stern,  when  others  fail 

No  doubt,  those  dungeons  old  have  many  a  tale 

Of  fruitless  warnings  and  of  sequels  dread, 

Of  warnings  terrible;  but  none  so  strange, 

So  inconsistent  to  all  fitting  things; — 

I  hope,  Signora,  that  my  meaning  brings 

Itself  within  the  limit  of  your  range 

Of  sensitive  perception; — now  adieu, 

Signora,"  said  the  wretch,  and  then  withdrew. 

IX. 

And  soon  the  days  passed;  but  in  vain  she  tried, 
Sad,  faithful  prisoner  who  on  chance  relied, 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  91 

To  find  some  messenger.     The  servants  all 
Were  searched  with  vigilance,  and  sent  a  way, 
Like  wanderers,  in  the  outside  world,  to  stray; 
For  some  of  them,  since  childhood,  in  that  Hah1, 
Had  dwelt,  and  still  in  peace  had  hoped  to  dwell, 
Changeless  as  those  old  halls,  till  life's   closed  day. 
At  first,  Etolia  thought, — "it  is  not  well, 
That  I  this  trouble,  to  Cozenza  tell: 
Charged  with  so  much  of  import  as  he  is, 
How  can  I  hope  the  tyrant's  blow  to  miss 
Through  his  protecting  arm  ;  my  sorrow  less 
"Will  be,  concealed  from  his  so  keen  distress; 
And  even  at  the  most,  my  sorrow's  gloom 
Must  not  precipitate  my  hero's  doom,      • 
Nor  find  weak  refuge  in  my  hero's  tomb." 


The  bright  crusading  banners  were  not  stirred 
By  Syrian  winds  ;  and  on  the  thrilling  eve, 
The  Harp  and  Paynim  trumpet  were  not  heard. 
It  was  the  Revolution's  mighty  heave — 
Cowards  in  strongholds,  well  content  to  fire 
Through  the  fair  street,  and  o'er  the  splendid  spire. 
All  the  night  long,  upon  the  city  fell, 
The  detonation  of  the  bursting  shell: 
Vain  was  all  watchful  care, — the  vandal  deed 
Struck  in  the  household,  childhood  and  old  age; 
Whoe'er  had  strength  to  fly,  in  flight's  quick   heed 
Bereft  the  weak  ;  and  love's  power  to  assuage, 
Could  but,  returning  wild,  rush  in  again, 
To  find  a  mangled  child,  or  parent  slain — 


92  COZENZA. 

No  roof  secure  j — the  stricken  lambent  flame, 

From  balcony  and  flowery  casement  came. 

Around  the  walls,  and  sounding    ancient  shore. — 

All  day,  all  night,  the  cannon  o'er  and  o'er, 

Unceasing  sent  its  dreadful,  muffled  roar. 

Eight  steamers  came  at  midnight, — each  a  sting 

From  the  great  scorpion  that  some  called  their  king; 

Five  thousand  soldiers  more,  the  bastioned  gate 

Of  old  Moutaldo's  faithful  fires,  did  wait. 

Fearful  the  conflict !  vain,  rampart  and  fort; 

For  step  by  step  the  people's  fierce  retort 

Viva  IS  Italia  !  the  last  words  to  bless, 

Of  dying  lips,  still  cheered  dear  bought  success. 

While^om  Montaldo  rung  the  enfilade, 

From  house  to  house,  through  walls,    the    conflict 

made 

Indomitable  way  ; — in  ev'ry  room, 26 
The  bloody  strife  contested  hand  to  hand  : — 
Let  me  not  dwell  upon  the  slaughter's  gloom ; 
For  all  of  valor's  feats,  you  understand, 
Since  it  was  old  Palermo,  brave  and  grand. 

XI. 

Out  on  the  mountains,  the  following  day, 
To  meet  more  entering  troops  upon  their  way; 
Hunger  and  thirst,  through  fierce  long  hours,  they 

stood, 

Their  numbers,  still  like  an  increasing  flood  ; 
Sending,  at  last,  the  messengers  for  food, 
Entreating, —  no  bread  came ;  and  then  for  water, 
Resignedly,  they  asked,  while  still  the  slaughter 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  93 

Reciprocal,  endured  until  the  eve, — 

Alas !  'twas  then  discovered — and  we  grieve 

To  tell  the  Comitato's  treason — they, 

"Withholding  promised  succor,  did  betray : — 

A  few  hours  more — victory  to  decide; 

But  vain  the  earnest  hopes  of  those  who  tried; 

Though  faint   with  thirst  and   hunger,   still  they 

cried,  f 

" Down  with  the  Bourbon,"  and,  like  heroes,  died: 
And  then  a  royal  amnesty  withdrew 
From  out  the  valliant  ranks,  a  dastard  few 
Who  weakly  turned  submissive  and  untrue. 

XII. 

• 

On  mount  Calatifini,  the  Brigands 
Managed  their  cannon  with  devoted  hands — 
Repentent  and  self  sacrificing,  who 
Of  all  surpassed  them,  dauntless  there  and  true — 
Piled  were  the  dead,  Salluzzi  dared  not  count, 
Round  the  tricolor  on  that  signal'mount. 
At  last  he  sought  Cozenza, — "Come  remain 
Not  here,"  he  said,  "  seek  safety  !  All  is  vain  !" 
"  Never !"  Cozenza  cried,   ''Behold  the  slain  ! 
My  hope  was  with  them  ;  and  when  now  they  meet 
Reverse,  with  them  shall  be  my  last  defeat ! 
I  led  them  on  to  this, — they  don't  retreat ! 
Hungry,  but  victorious,  here,  this  morn — 
For  treason  and  betrayal,  see  their  scorn  !" 

XIII. 

u  Well,  since  you  list  not,"  said  Salluzzi,  "  I 
Will  give  you  argument  you  can't  deny, 


COZENZA. 

Unless  you  would,  like  a  sold  traitor,  die  ! 

Suppose  a  sum  were  offered  for  your  head, 

Alive,  or  else  to  murder  you  instead — 

General !  you**  power  and  example  have 

Thwarted  the  enemy,  aspired  to  save 

The  country.     Knowing  this,  the  traitors  gave 

A  charge — you  should  not  see  another  day. — 

In  these  confused  hours ; — in  this  hot  fray 

How  easy,  pulls  a[trigger, — and  the  sum 

I  might  e'en  name  to  you, — now  will  you  come?" 

"None  would  accept  it"  said  Cozenza;  tl  Hold  ! 

I  have  accepted  it  "  Salluzzi  bold 

Beplied,  «and  bargained  for  the  deed  in  gold ! 

This  will  prevent  all  others  from  the  dire 

And  dastard  act — and  now  at  once  retire." 

XIV. 

e<  No !  No !"  Cozenza  said,  "thus  saved  attack, 
To  my  brave  fellows  I  will  hasten  back. 
We'll  wait  here  until  dusk — thereafter,  soon 
The  signal  lights  will  rise — late  shows  the  moon ; 
And  then,  Salluzzi,  watchful  care  and  chance 
Must  see  the  men  all  ready  for  advance. 
Surprise  the  garrison,  Palazzo  di  Finance; — 
One  hundred  men  from  Borgo  and  Colli, 
Commanded  by  Suchelli,  will  set  free 
The  prisoners  ;  if  failure  meet  their  aim, 
Their  faithful  service  will  be  judged  the  same, 
To  keep  the  troops  of  Molo  all  the  night, 
Engaged,  someway,  in  desultory  fight, 
And  I,  at  Porta  d'Ossone,  will  stand — 


A   TALE    OF    ITALY.  95 

You  know  the  mansion  quarters,  near  at  hand, 
And  thence,  myself,  go  on  to  the  attack 
Upon  Noviziato; — you'll  be  back — 
More  victory  and  success,  we'll  meet  to  tell — 
If  not,  then  Camerata — now,  farewell !" 

XV. 

Again,  to  Olevano's  let  us  go 

And  see  what  more,  its  storied  days  may  show 

The  next  time  that  Morbili  came,  he  brought 27 

Bruno  and  Pontillo,  who  first  had  wrought 

The  torture  beams  similar  to  a  rack: 

Another,  too,  accompanied  them  back — 

Her  friend,  the  Cardinal,  to  comfort  her, 

And  to  advise  her  obstinate  self-will. 

She  was  not  corteous — for  she  did  not  stir 

When  his  name  was  announced;  but  sitting  still, 

She  seemed  to  nerve  herself  anew.     He  came 

With  fatherly  regard,  apparently; 

And  took  her  hand,  and  softly  called  her  name. 

"My  daughter  !"  then  he  said,  *<what  fearful  blame 

Is  this  which  lieth  heavily  on  thee  ? 

And  will  you  not  confess  it  all  to  me  ?" 

XVI. 

"Father,  you  know  I  cannot  hope  to  win 
Your  favor — for,  at  first,  you  called  it  sin." 
"And  so  I  did,  my  child — this  undeniecl; — 
Commit  not  sacrilege  with  it  beside, 
Disloyal  to  your  King — of  this  accused." 
Etolia,  faintly  smilin 


96  COZENZA. 

His  face,  with  meaning  iooks,  and  gently  said  ; 

''You  know  Pm  loyal  to  my  king,  instead; 

But  as  for  your  king, — I  scarce  understand; 

Though  I  suppose  that  you  mean  Ferdinand." 

He  smiled  in  turn  5  her  meaning  he  perceived : 

Too  late,  he  looked  sincerely,  deeply  grieved; 

And  told  her  earnestly,  he  could  not  save 

Her  direst  consequence,  unless  she  gave 

Account  explicit  of  all  secret  plot. 

Vain,  was  her  strict  assurance,  she  had  not 

The   knowledge   asked   her:    "They    would  not 

believe," 

He  answered  sternly; — "nor  could  he  retrieve 
The  suffering  she  would  bring  upon  herself, 
Ending,  no  doubt;  and  honored  with  a  shelf 
In  the  old  vaults  her  ancestors  long  filled — 
And  some  of  them,  like  her,  had  been  self-willed." 

XVII. 

Here  poor  Etolia  looked  at  him,  and  thrilled 
With  trouble  and  foreboding.     Quickly  flew, 
As  unto  heavy  flowers  their  full  dew, 
The  tears  into  her  gentle  eyes  of  pain. 
He  could  not  bear  this ;  and  he  said  again  ; — 
"Think  of  what  I  advise;  and  let  me  find, 
On  my  return,  such  change  of  heart  and  mind, 
As  will,  my  child,  restore  all  gracious  trust 
With  our  good  Ferdinand,  so  great  and  just.7' 
"Your  Eminence,  I  will  not  change  one  inch  ; 
And  persecution  will  not  make  me  flinch : 
Too  well  Fve  learned  the  very  doctrines  you 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  1)7 

Inculcate  nobly — ever  to  be  true 

To  my  dear  Lord,  even  should  martyrdom 

From  ev'ry  deathly  horror  on  me  come ; 

And  now  farewell  !     I  cannot  bear  suspense." 

Again  her  fine  lip's  curve  grew  close  and  tense, 

As  though  made  ready  to  endure  all  things: 

Her  friend  departed  amid  whisperings 

And  anxious  looks,  that  followed,  of  the  Guard 

Gathered  in  Olevano's  old  court-yard. 

XVIII. 

Three  days  elapsed;  and  then  the  Order  was, 
To  have  her  up  for  trial  formally — 
The  Charge  repeated,  of  offended  laws — 
If  so  desired,  she  might  send  for,  and  see 
Her  husband  or  her  friends — 0,  mockery  ! 

XIX. 

In  the  lone  chambers  that  had  long  been  closed, 

Morbili's  Court  held  session  ;  and  there  sat 

Pontillo,  Del  Caretto;  and  there  dozjd 

Old  Cardinal  Capano,  just  as  fat 

As  ever,  though,  'tis  true,  he  fretted  at 

Etolia's  strange  perversity  ;  but  sin 

Had  not  the  evil  power  to  make  him  thin : 

As  for  Etolia,  she  had  lately  grown 

Like  a  swooned  lily  by  a  storm-wind  blown. 

When  called,  she  answered;  and  she  told  her  name, 

Her  station,  and  her  lineage,  whence  she  cumo. 

At  this,  Capano  waked,  and  wiped  his  eyes, 

Grief  had  overcome  him,  or  sleep,  or  surprise: 


COZENZA. 

Reproaching  her,  he  left  her  to  her  fate; 
But,  secretly,  himself,  he  blamed — too  late: 
Too  late,  he  had  advised; — too  late,  he  sought 
Her  youthful,  wayward  counsel  ;  and  just  brought 
The  culmination  he  could  not  avert: 
The  stern  old  fellow  felt  a  little  hurt, 
And  more  alarmed — but  tried  to  justify 
Himself — she  could  control  her  destiny, 
If  she  were  not  so  perverse,  and  of  mood 
Intractable — not  easy  understood. 
Thus  angered  and  distressed,  he  could  not  stay  , 
And  ere  the  trial  closed,  he  drove  away. 

XX.* 

Etolia  was  remanded,  till  once  more 

She  should  be  called.     Wearily  at  the  door 

Of  her  sad  chamber,  entering  she  met 

Concetta  weeping.     "Lady,  you  forget 

What  record  awful,  and  alone  I  keep, 

Some  day,  account  to  render  !     Why  not  weep  ? 

'Twere  better  I  were  dead,  than  live  to  tell 

To  Count  Cozenza,  of  what  things  befell 

My  Lady,  were  she  dead  from  torture's  pain, 

Or  those  o'erwhelming  troubles  that  obtain 

Ascendancy.     What  would  they  ask  ? — tell  all ! 

Your  telling  it,  will  not  make  aught  befall 

The  Count  Cozenza — he  is  safely  far — 

A  fearless  destiny,  his  ruling  star — 

Shielded  by  faithful  hands  of  love,    and   hearts ; — 

Each,  a  defender,  at  his  danger  starts.7' 


A   TALE    OF    ITALY.  9S 

XXI. 

And  thus  the  good  Concetta,  vainly  tried 

Propitiation  that  was  still  denied 

Gently  but  firmly.     "  No,  Concetta,  friend  ! 

Your  unremitting  care  may  too  soon  end; 

Go  to  Palermo,  with  your  trust  sincere, 

And  find  him,  if  you  can,  whom  I  hold  dear; 

And  tell  him — ah  great  God  !  alas !  I  fear 

The  death  of  battles  in  his  brave  career, — 

You  will  not  e'er  have  need — he  may  not  hear: 

Firm  still  thy  fortitude,  as  fondly  brave, — 

At  least,  Concetta,  try  thyself  to  save : 

Go  quickly  when  they  free  thee,  which  they  will — 

But  tell  him  nothing  hastily,  until 

Surmises  of  these  things  first  come,  as  on 

The  sunset  cometh  night,  ere  'tis  begun : 

You  know,  Concetta,  not  to  give  him  pain 

Sudden  or  terrible,  but  to  refrain, 

And  wait  his  stricken  evidence  of  woe: — 

Have  you  not  watched  the  creeping  tidal-flow, 

The  overwhelming  and  relentless  main, 

So  like  to  agony's  slow,  boundless  throe 

That  cannot  be  restrained  ? — No,  No  !  ah  no  ! — 

Concetta,  tell  him  thus — let  fall  the  blow 

Lightly  as  possible — you  know — you  know  !" 

XXII. 

Her  voice  was  hushed  !  She  did  not  speak    again : 
That  day,  they  fastened  a  light,  strong,  steel  chain 
Around  her  beauteous  arm: — the  castle  rung 
With  hammer  blows:  a  ring,    in  which    was  hung 


100  COZENZA. 

The  chain,  was  driven  in  the  wall;  and  swung 
The  width  of  her  apartment — and  no  more: 
She  now  was  prisoner  close  within  its  door; 
And  of  Concetta's  constant  care — forlorn, 
She  waked  to  miss  e'en  that  the  coming  morn. 
Her  only  food  was  now  a  little  bread, 
Having  refused  Capano's  further  aid, 
Which  gave  her  judges  reason  to  believe 
Her  contumacy  meant  but  to  deceive 
With  vague,  evasive  answers  for  the  truth : 
— They  had  no  pity  on  her  love  or  youth. 

XXIII. 

After  the  first  dread  trial,  when  remanded, 

She  seemed    a  fragile   wreck,    storm-washed    and 

stranded. 

She  thus  was  kept,  a  few  days  in  her  room — 
The  cruel  chain  still  adding  to  her  gloom; 
But  firmly  patient,  her  calm  apathy 
Had  almost  overcome  anxiety  ; 
The  seals  were  broken  on  her  founts  of  hope; 
The  sunlight,  and  the  verdure  from  the  slope 
Had  vanished;  and,  relying  but  on  God, 
Already,  the  dark  valley's  path,  she  trod  : 
Pressed  deeply  in  by  death  and  girdling  grief, 
She  only  prayed,  their  agony  be  brief. 
Once  more  Morbili  questioned  her,  and  took 
Occasion,  holding  judgment,  to  rebuke 
Her  reckless  disregard  of  her  own  fate; 
In  many  pompous  words,  assumed  to  state 
The  nature  of  the  punishments — when  he 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  101 

Lost  further  patience  with  obstinacy. 

Vain  was  her  terror — vain  his  every  threat; 

Morbili  was  so  angry  that  he  roared: 

She  almost  heard  the  sound  of  her  heart's  beat; 

But  seemed,  above  all  terror,  to  have  soared. 

XXIV. 

tl  Take  her,"  he  said;  "  and  let  her  then  be  thrown 
Into  the  dungeon,  though  she  die  alone  !'' — 
Even  the  guards  could  scarce  suppress  a  groan, 
Hearing  this  sentence.   When  the  court  adjourned, 
She  was  not  to  her  lonely  room  returned  : 
Drear  as  it  was,  it  had  both  light  and  air; 
But  these  had  vanished  when  below  the  stair 
Of  cold,  gray  stone,  that  to  the  dungeons  led, 
Where  she  was  taken,  less  alive  than  dead: 
And  still  her  food — hard  bread — a  little  water; 
Incredible,  yet  true;  that  nurtured  daughter 
Of  delicate  fine  race,  imprisoned  lay, 
Perishing  by  want — hid  from  light  of  day. 
Martyr  of  Justice  !  even  this, — and  lo  ! 
There  is  more  yet  to  tell, — thy  final  woe  ! 

XXV. 

Next  day,  the  Order  was  to  take  her  up  : 

Morbili  feared  she'd  die,  before  the  cup 

Of  bitterness  was  drained  to  its  last  drop. 

"  Where  is  she  ?"  said  the  seeking  men :  "  Just  stop 

We'll  call  her,  for  'tis  dark  as  Hades  here ! 

She  may  be  hid,  or  sleeping  somewhere  near." 

They  called;  and  nothing  answered,  save  the  sound 


102  C  O  Z  E  N  Z  A . 

Reverberate  of  their  voices, — all  profound 

Dark  stillness,  through  the  damp,  deep  dungeons,, 

round. 

His  minions  sought  her  in  the  barathrum,2* 
A  pit  below  the  floor — the  Tullianum 
Of  Rome  was  the  original  of  these — • 
Old  prisons,  or  old  cesspools,  as  you  please. 
For  sometimes  they  conjoined  the  common  sewer; 

Arid  those  cast  in,  were  never  heard  of  more. 

• 
XXVI. 

In  one  such  horrible  and  Orcus  place — 
Still  groping,  and  still  finding  not  a  trace 
Of  her  whom  there  they  left,  the  night  before— 
With  careful  hands,  they  touched   the  walls,    the 
floor : 

At  last — "  I  see  her,"  said  one  of  the  men, 
''There  she  is  crouching  in  a  bunch,  I  think ! 
I  guess  she's  not  quite  healthy  in  this  den  I 
Perhaps,  she's  fainted,  and  should  have  a  drink, 
Or  needs  some  one  to  fan  her  j  the  rose  cloud 
Of  her  soft  cushion  is  not  here  allowed  : 
And  she  is  sulky,  is  she  not?"  Each  jest, 
While  she  was  all  unconscious  of  their  quest? 
Heartless  and  ghastly  passed  o'er  her  deep  rest; 
For  those  were  demons  of  Morbili's  own, 
Used  to  such  scenes — rare  jewels  of  the  Crown. 

XXVII 

They  moved  her,  finding  her  so  quiet;  and, 
When  lifted  up,  they  saw  she  could  not  stand  : 
They  carried  her,  and  laid  her  down  outside : 


A  TALE   OF    ITALY.  103 

The  firm  white  lips  were  closed  :  the  gentle  pride 
Of  her  deep,  lovely  eyes,  was  lidded  down, 
But  softly  quivered  when  the  pure  air,  blown 
Upon  her  face,  revived  her ;  and  she  sighed : 
And  soon  she  murmured,    "Light,    so  strange  !  so 

still  ! 

So  beautiful !  What  sounds,  the  sweet  air,  fill  ? 
Again  I  breathe !  My  God  !  have  I  not  died  ?" 
— As  human  nature  varies  kind  good  will 
For  scorn's  indifference  to  outside  things — 
No  more  compassion's  sympathetic  thrill 
Alleviated  her  great  sufferings  : 
None  to  behold  them,  whom  affection  moved; 
The  very  guards  who  had,  at  first,  so  proved 
Their  deep  remonstrance  by,  at  least,  a  groan, 
Had  into  use  been  hardened — horror  gone; 
And  gentle,  mild  respect  had  even  flown. 

XXVIII. 

For  now,  so  weary  and  so  faded,  weeks 

Of  woe  had  made    her — she  seemed   not  the  same. 

Upon  the  fairest,  harrowing  care  soon  wreaks 

His  blows  of  iron;  and  her  fragile  frame 

Bore  evidence  of  this.     Pontillo  came — 

"  You  may  be  executed,"  he  observed, 

"  If,  for  endurance,  you  are  not  well  nerved  : 

— You  may,  it  so  desired,  bind  up  your  brow : 

It  has  become  severest  duty  now, 

Signora,  to  extort  confession — sit 

On  the  ardente  sedia,  and  fit 

This  iron  band  about  your  temples,  please ; 


l''l  COZENZA. 

Or  I  will  have  it  done,  if  you  permit, — 
I  cannot  help  it,, if  you  feel  it  squeeze — 
And  hasten;  there's  no  use  in  such  long  prayer.'7 
— Absorbed,  and  answering  not.  Etolia  there 
^  Was  lowly  kneeling;  "Lord,  my  God  !  to  thee, 
I  offer  up  my  life  submissively  ! 
Save  him  for  whom  I  die,  since  upon  me 
Hath  come  the  sacrifice  !   Cozenza !  Love ! — 
Perfect  the  struggle  that  my  death  will  prove. " 

.    XXIX. 

They  seized,  and  placed  her  in  the  Enming-chair: 
Her  raiment  that  had  been  so  light  and  fine, 
Grew  slowly  scorched  ;  and  on  her  temples  fair. 
The  iron  band's  slow,  tightening,  dented  line 
Bled,    and    she    moaned :     then    Pontillo    cried, 

"There  ! 

Take  her  outside,  and  let  her  have  some  air  !" 
They  watched  her  for  some  sign's  returning  life — 
But  vainly — she  was  freed  from  further  strife. 
Stretched  on  the  earth,  her  pale  pure  brow,  marked 

round 

With  the  blue,  bleeding  line,  the  iron  bound  : 
In  vain  they  dashed  cold  water  on  her  lace  : — 
She  stirred  not  from  her  finished,  quiet  grace  ! 
In  peace,  Etolia  !  to  thy  resting  place 
Go  now,  sweet  soul,  for  all  is  consummated  ! 
And  better  to  have  died  unconscious  thus, 
Than  to  have  lived  to  learn,  what  life  still    fated — 
More  grievous  to  thy  heart,  than  life's  own  loss. 


A   TALE    OF    ITALY. 


€1 

".asteir    a     ffi  are. 


I. 

Remember  where  Cozenza  and  Salluzzi  stood 
Together,   near   Headquarteis,    in   the    mountain- 
wood; 

All  was  disaster  that  eventful  night — 
Betrayal,  panic,  death,  and  wounded  flight. 
A  tramping  patrol  found  our  hero,  laid 
Near  Porta  di  termina — some   dismayed 
Adherents,  hopeless,  fled,  and  left  him  there : 
He  was  unconscious,  bleeding;  but  with  care — 
The  patrols  knew  their  prisoner — what  rare 
Captive  they  carried  to  Castell '  a  mare. 
He  wakened,  wounded  unto  death  almost; 
And  many  days  and  weeks  in  fever,  tossed: 
His  heart  beat,and  his  nerves  with  grieving  thought: 
He  felt,  to  execution,  he'd  be  brought; 
All  outside  freedom  he  had  left  behind; 
But  civilly,  the  captain  had  consigned 
Him  to  an  officer  on  duty — he 
Was  kept'a  prisoner,  but  yet  was  free 


106  COZENZA. 

To  walk  at  leisure.     When  he  stepped  inside, 
He  saw  the  bridges  drawn  that  then  denied 
Him  egress  from  that  place;  and  he  felt  sure 
There  was  no  life  for  him  beyond  its  door. 

II 

Along  the  ramparts,  up  and  down,  he  walked; 
And  careless  with  the  guards,  unnoticed  talked : 
One  day,  at  change  of  sentinels,  he  passed 
The  square  where  piles  of  guns  and    shells    were 

massed 

In  pyramidal  rows — a  martial  kind 
Of  armament:  pond'ring,  he  thought  to  find 
The  means  of  some  escape :  absorbed,  he  rose 
With  equal  hope  to  projects;  but  all  those, 
Each  after  each,  appeared  impossible. 
At  last,  as  chance  would  have  it,  so  it  fell, 
That,  unintentionally,  he  ascended, 
And  reached  the  line  made  circular  that  ended 
The  rampart  of  the  bastion  by  the  sea  : 
At  ev'ry  fort  he  crossed,  he  cordially 
Returned  the  call,    and   said; — "Your  Captain's 

guest !" 

The  guards  were  newly  mounted,  but  had  known 
The  kindness  that  their  officer  had  shown 
This  prisoner — their  minds  were  quite  at  rest. 

III. 

Continuing  his  tour  along  the  left, 

He  saw  the  windows  of  the  Chapel  where 

The  prisoners,  condemned, — of  hope  bereft, — 

Passed  three  days,  previous  to  their  last,  in  prayer, 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  107 

Or  any  other  way  the  notion  took  them — 

'Twas  just  an  incubus  contrived,  that  shook    them 

With  cruel  horror  till  their  day  of  doom, 

Slowly  and  coldly,  in  that  chapel's  gloom. 

He  shuddered,  and  passed   on;  and  soon    he  found 

A  sentinel  who  talked  much,  on  his  round, 

About  the  weather,  and  the  soldiers'  lives — 

In  fact,  the  whole  line  of  his  genealogy, — 

And  would  have  gone  to  Solomon  and  his  wives, 

Without  the  least  remorse,  or  an  apology, 

But  for  an  incident  that  then  occurred, 

And  drew  attention  without  further  word  : 

A  woman,  holding  on  her  arm  a  basket 

Containing  cakes  and  bottles,  crying  out 

"  Biscata,  Zembu  /" — Though  she  did  not  ask  it, 

She  seemed  to  claim  attention:  she  was  stout, — 

And  was,  perhaps,  disguised : — with  this  impressed, 

Cozenza  watched  her,  and  when  near,  addressed  : 

IV. 

"  Signora,  will  you  bring  a  flask  of  wine 

Or  a  good  cake  ?"  Instinctively,  a  sign, 

As  of  some  motion  or  ulterior  aim, 

She  made :  he  started — sure,  she  was  the  same, 

His  friend  Concetta,  whom  he  thought  so  far — 

Perplexity  and  fear  made  quickly  war 

Within  his  anxious  mind ;  he  dared  not  speak  : 

She  noted  soon  the  pallor  on  his  cheek; 

And  swiftly  spoke,  herself — lest  he  might  say, 

Incautiously,  some  word  that  would  betray— 

"  If  you  will  wait  ten  minutes,"  answered  she, 


108  COZENZA. 

Resuming  where  he  stopped  ;  recovering,  he, 
Prompted  instinctively,  then  quickly  drew 
Five  pieces  from  his  pocket;  ere  she  knew, 
He  placed  them  with  strong  pressure  in  her  hand  : 
—Though  both  were  silent,  did  she  understand  f 

V. 

She  left  him  musing;  and  his  restless  mind 
Waved  like  a  night-bird  in  a  stormy  wind: 
He  sighed,  and  almost  cursed  his  luckless  fate 
"When  struck  the  hour,  a-quarter-past-of-eight. 
Fainter,  the  sentinels,  each  after  each, 
Answered,  Allerta  sta,  along  the  line: — 
Beneath  him  stretched  the  sea,  night's  dismal  reach; 
But  action,  and  not  musing,  must  prolong 
His  life  now  menaced  by  oppression's  wrong. 
Of  the  late  incident,  what  meant  the  sign 
Concetta  gave  him  ;  and  why  was  she  here  ? — 
Again  his t heart  thrilled  with  some    startling   fear; 
Again  appalling  truth  flashed  on  him — chance 
Alone  could  save  him —  as  a  poising  lance, 
His  purpose  on  the  soldier  he  resumed : 
To  humor  him  awhile,  his  words  were  plumed. 

VI. 

Ere  long  the  woman  reappeared,  and  placed 

A  bottle  and  two  tin  cups  on  the  ground; 

And  stood  in  such  a  manner,  that  she  faced 

Cozenza.     Hurriedly,  she  glanced  around; 

And  then,  intently  at  him,  and  retired. 

His  very  heart  was  striking  ;  he  respired 

With  hard-won  effort;  each  breath  seemed  a  knell; 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  109 

He  dared  not  ask  her  aught;  she  dared  not  tell: 
— All  these  surmises  and  transpired  affairs, 
Were  a  few  moments ;  thus,  when  danger    stares, 
We  feel  and  think  intently,  in  a  space 
Much  shorter  than  in  any  other  case. 

VII. 

Cozenza,  then,  with  forced  light  jollity, 
Said  ;  4<  Cameraia,  what  say  you,  if  we 
Drink  the  king's  health  ?"  "  You  know  I  cannot — • 

thanks, 

Signer!  drinking  on  duty,  and  such  pranks, 
Place  us  upon  retirement  in  the  tanks  !" 
tl  Come"  said  Gozenza;  "Fm  your  Captain's  guest!" 
— This  "  reasonable  "  reason  seemed  the  best — 
Forthwith,  this  genial  comrade  of  the  ranks 
Ignored  such  small  offence  of  dicipline: 
He  thought  not  twice,  but  took  the  little  tin; 
Cozenza  took  the  other,  filled  it  up — 
"Here's  the  king's  health  !"  he  said,  in  whispered 

tone  ; 

Then  deftly  down  his  shirt  front,  it  was  thrown. 
The  soldier  drank,  at  once,  the  tempting  cup — 
"  Excellent !"  he  smacked.    "Take  another  chum," 
Cozenza  graciously  repeated  ;  "  Come  !" 

VIII. 

Again  he  filled  it,  and  the  bottle  tost 
Over  the  rampart  to  the  seething  sea — 
Of  all  the  many  things  of  time,  long  lost — 
Not  the  least  costly  of  its  argosy: 


110  COZENZA. 

A  moment  more,  the  soldier  heavily 

Began  to  stammer;  soon  he  sank  and  slept. 

To  the  aperture  of  the  cannon,  crept 

Cozenza  softly :  as  he  looked  below — 

There  were  the  rocks — the  sea  in  turbid  flow: 

If,  he  should  throw  himself — the  certain  risk — 

'Twas  thirty  feet  beneath  the  Cannon's  disk. 

The  massive  rocks  that,  piled  against  the  wall, 

Kept  off  the  breakers,  would  receive  his  fall : 

To  shudder  was  to  fail;  the  cups  he  threw 

Into  the  Ocean,  and  his  pistols  too. 

The  night  was  pitchy  dark,  of  blackest  hue: 

Heaven  and  Earth  seemed  joined  in  ooe  dense  mass: 

The  troubled  waters  sounded  with  the  pass 

Of  strong  harmonious  winds.  The  tower's  bell 

Struck  the  last  quarter — cold  his  heart's  blood  fell, 

Then  came  the  cry  from  the  first  sentinel, 

And  answered  through  the  line,  the  "All  is  well !" 

IX. 

But  here,  one  guard  lay  senseless,  at  his  feet, 
Who  should  respond  to  make  the  line  complete — 
Discovery,  imminent — the  moments,  fleet. 
Again  the  Sentry's  voice — continuing, 
The  next  to  him  should  call  it;  and  thus  bring 
The  repetition  to  his  post: — the  string 
Of  his  large  cloak  he  held,  to  gather  close 
The  two  ends  in  his  hands,  before  he'd  spring: 
He  lingered;  one  more  effort — heard  the  call, 
And  answered — then  he  leaped  the  bastioned  wall. 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  Ill 

X. 

Swift  as  an  arrow  shot  from  bended  bow, 
He  disappeared  upon  the  rocks  below — 
No  sound  came  from  the  turbid,  onward  flow. 
Great  Heavens  !  who  shall  ask  the  dark  repose 
\Vras  then  his  quivering  form  in  death's  last  throes? 
Or  was  he  swept  out  on  the  tide's  high  swell, 
The  requiem  of  the  deep  his  only  knell; 
He  had  commended  to  the  God  of  woes, 
His  reckless  spirit;  and  not  yet  did  close 
That  passionate,  strong  life :  his  form  arose 
Above  the  dark  abyss — survived  the  leap — 
Some  other  awful  destiny  to  keep. 

XI, 

His  ample  cloak,  wide  floating  on  the  wind, 
Seemed  as  a  spirit  of  the  gloom,  consigned 
To  the  deep  halls  of  Neptune,  there  to  find 
Repose  denied  on  Earth  to  all  mankind: 
— 7Twas  not  that  of  Elias, — nor  the  wing 
Of  the  old  Roman  Eagle,  fluttering; 
But  'twas  more  adequate,  if  anything — 
For  upward  it  sustained  him  in  his  fall, 
As  mostly,  our  own  cloaks  do,  after  all. 

XII. 

He  fell  upon  the  rocks,  and  seemed  unharmed; 
Though  stunned  a  little,  groping  as  one  blind, 
He  almost  felt  as  if  his  life  were  charmed  : 
Escaped  he  was  ;  and  nothing  heard  behind — 
The  castle  all  was  silent — unalarmed; — 


112  COZENZA. 

Then  with  redoubled  courage,  plunged  to  cross 
The  basin  small,  between  him  and  the  land. 
Forward  in  struggle   with  the  waves'    high  heave, 
Half  vainly,  did  the  desperate  swimmer  toss  : 
The  water  reached  his  chin ,  and  ev'ry  wave 
Smote  like  a  thunderbolt  against  his  hand; 
And  o'er  his  head,  with  mighty  roar,  it  fell 
Upon  the  beach's  smooth,  extending  swell. 

XIII. 

At  last,  he  reached  the  shore;  the  boats  were  all 
Drawn  up,  and  formed  a  crest,  or  coronal: 
His  foot  scarce  rested  on  the  laud,  when  he 
Turned  back  his  gaze  appalled,  upon  the  sea; — 
The  rocks  he  had  escaped;  the  Tower  from  whence 
He  leaped ; — but  lo !  what  dimness  closed  his  sense : 
His  wounds  were  bleeding  fresh  :  he  felt  the  warm, 
Life-blood  fast  oozing  from  his  breast,    and  arm: 
He  dared  not  rest  there,  lest  alone  he'd  lie 
Unconscious  all  the  night,  or  lonely  die. 
He  dared  not  enter,  through  Porta  Felice, 
The  city,  lest  he  meet  the  dread  Police. 
Then,  to  the  mountains  he  must  go,  though  long 
The  road  and,  met  at  every  turn,  a  throng 
Of  patrols:  yet  with  cautious  care  he  might 
Hope  to  escape  their  notice,  in  the  night. 
Wearily  on,  some  distance,  toiled  he  slow, 
Striving  to  justify  his  present  woe; 
Better  it  were  to  die,  if  die  he  must, 
In  proud  defiance — for  his  cause  so  just, 
Such  death  were  not  defeat — lonely  but  free, 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  113 

And  not  the  victim  of  ignominy. 

XIV. 

Ah  !  can  we  think  of  him  in  that  dread  hour  ? 

He  was  going  to  die — each  failing  power 

Left  him  with  sinking  faintness  of  the  heart; 

The  long  road  silent,  made  each  light  sound  start 
His  quiv'ring    nerves,    and  overwrought  trembling 

frame: 

Each  moment,  he  expected  but  to  hear 
The  Castle's  loud  alarm,  rung  far  and  near. 
— Still  on  he  walked,  or  struggled  till  he  came 
To  a  dense  grove  of  Olives  ;  there  he  lay, 
Not  much  unlike  One  of  an  ancient  day  : 
He  thought  he  rested;  but  a  deathly  faint 
Came  over  him. — Farewell,  Cozenza,  now! 
Thy  white  face  upward  looked — a  soldier  saint ! 
The  chilly  dews  were  on  thy  glorious  brow  ! 
Dying  alone,  with  none  to  aid,  or  know — 
Not  all  alone:  there  was  a  form  came  near, 
So  light  her  footstep  that  he  scarce  could  hear. 

XV. 

This  was  the  battle  spot  of  recent  strife, 
Vanquished  with  sacrifice  and  yielded  life; 
And  here,  Love  sought  the  Dead, — Lavagna's  wife 
Sought  Lavagna  ;  aflection,  more  than  fear — 
Where  wild  dogs  feasted  •  and  were  coldly  strewn, 
Unhurried,  half  the  dead,  beneath  the  moon. 
Dimly  in  death,  Cozenza  scarce  could  see 
Concetta.     Did  she  know  him  ?  Bending   close — 
*8 


114  COZENZA. 

'Twas  not  the  one  she  sought  mid  death's  repose — 

Bat  'twas  Cozenza;  and  she  started  back  ; 

— A  cloud  passed  o'er  the  moon,  and  made  it  black. 

"  He  dies,"  she  said,   "now  he  need  never  know." 

Kneeling,  she  held  his  hand,  and  raised  his  brow, 

And  listened  to  the  words  he  murmured  low, 

For  he  had  rallied  :  he  was  finely  strong, 

And  highly  wrought,  with  effort ;  and  ere  long, 

From  his  cold,  paling  lips  there  came  a  name — 

To  Love,  and  Life,  and  Death — it  was  the  same. 

XVI. 

"  My  own  Etolia !  named  for  happy  skies  ! 
The  anguish  of  the  dying  on  me  lies ! 
Oh,  for  one  look  of  thy  adoring  eyes  ! 
Then,  as  the  brave  from  combats,  would  I  go, 
Thy  pride  and  tenderness   surmounting  woe  ! 
Farewell,  Etolia,  my  Beloved  !  Farewell ! 
Upon  the  waters,  sank  the  crimson,  swell 
Of  the  last  sunset  I  shall  e'er  behold  ! 
Our  bugles  silent;  and  our  banners'  gold, 
Furling  and  folding  in  the  purple  gloom 
Of  the  far  distant  mountains — fitting  tomb 
For  noble  efforts  vain.     0  wife  !  to-night, 
The  face  thou  lovest,  will  be  cold  and  white ! 
Around  me  are  the  dead,  on  altar  rocks — 
Devoted  hearts  and  brave,  forever  quenched — 
Their  true  and  tried  hands  on  their  musket-locks, 
Or  on  their  broken  bayonets,  coldly  clenched. 
And  when  thy  chains  are  falling,  fair,  dear  land  ! 
Long  will  have  perished,  my  love-daring  hand  ! 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  115 

Once  more,  farewell,  sweet  wife!    sweet  Love   of 

mine  ! 

To  thee  and  to  my  God,  my  soul  I  sign, 
Red,  with  the  Martyr's  signet !  Oh,  thy  tears 
I  feel ;  and  thy  soft  voice  falls  on  my  ears 

4 

Like  waters  in  Cascades  whose  music  nils 

Th'  embosomed  beaut)1  of  our  native  hills  ! — 

My    heart's   thrill,   fainter  grows!    Take    my    lasft 

breath — 
Etolia  and  Italia  !  Love  and  Death  !  " 

XVII. 

Unsanctified  ?  No,  No  !  yet  he  is  dead  ! 
Vainly,  yet  so  loved— the  oppressor's  foe  ! 
The  transport  of  his  radiant  cheek  is  fled, 
— As  a  wave's  ripple,  as  a  star's  soft  glow, 
Submerged  to  gleam  beyond,  to  shine  below — 
Along  the  glittering  water's  distant  flow, 
When  the  enchanting  clouds,  disparting,  blow — 
So  lived,  and  died  this  one  !  the  glorious  brave  ! 
His  own  blue  Tyrrhene  skies  are  o'er  his  grave; 
And  Myrtle  blooms,  and  Olive  o'er  it  wave. 
O  land  !  whose  lava  streams  poured  out,  turn  cold — 
Still,  from  thy  burning   mounts,  those  streams  are 
rolled !  / 

(UNIVERSITY 
xvni-       ^CALJF 

Feronia,  Goddess  bright !  thy  sacred  woods 29 
Shade  not  Soracte;  but  thy  holy  floods 
Pour  downward  to  the  sea  ;  —no  votaries'  hands, 
And  faces  fair  now  wash  upon  their  sands: 


116  COZENZA. 

For  thee,  'twas  said,  the  feet  bare  palmed,  could 

go 

Across  the  burning  coals,  though  burning  slow, 
Without  the  senses'  pain  of  human  woe. 
Fides!  the  oaths  of  honesty  were  kept30 
For  thee,  for  whom  first  incense  Numa  swept  : 
But  what  of  all  this  sacrifice  of  old  ? 
Italia !  are  thy  heroes  now  less  bold  ? 

The  water  now  is  blood — she  sylvan  chalice,  gold  I 
Thy  wings  are  upward ,  and  with  love  sublime, 
Thy  martyrs  hung  their  crowns  on  towers  of  Time,, 
Expiring  for  thy  glorious  destiny — 
Upon  their  lips,  assurance  thus  to  thee, 
ITALIA  !  RISE  EXULTANT,  AND  BE  FREE  ! 

FAMA  SEMPER  VIVAT. 


A   TALE    OF    ITALY.  117 


ENVOY, 


Keader  !  if  patient  toil  have  brought 
To  thee,  in  verse,  one  pleasing  thought; 
Or  thrilled  within  thy  fervent  breast, 
One  hidden  chord  from  deep  unrest 

Of  sacred  love's  sweet  pain — 
Then  shall  the  task,  to  me  assigned, 
Repay  my  weariness  of  mind; 
And,  ere  we  part — a  short  farewell, — 
I  seem  to  hear  thy  kind  lips  tell 

Of  efforts  not  in  vain. 

Take  from  Pactolus'  sands  the  little  gold, 
Take  the  bruised  frankincense  from  desert  lands; 
O'er  all  the  rest  time's  ocean  shall  be  rolled — 
How  well  I  know,  thy  heart,  this  understands. 

Bound  with  torments  like  waters  of  Sophene, 
Bounded  with  waters  of  some  blank  despair, 
Till  death's  strong  trident  from  their  shadows  lean 
To  strike  the  lips  that  have  no  further  prayer. 

The  snine  of  marbles  in  the  summer  sun, 
The  sway  of  grass  upon  the  sunshine  breeze; 
This,  the  cold  glory  of  the  fair  things  done, 
And  the  deep  cadence  of  their  after  peace. 


118  OOZENZA, 


NOTES. 


NOTE  1. — PAGE  20. 
At  Cannae,  whose  historic  plain. 

The  scene  of  this  terrible  battle  was  the  plain,  between  Cannso 
and  Anfidus,  which  was  anciently  called  Campi  Diomedis.  Here 
the  consuls,  jEmylius  and  Varro,  made  a  desperate  and  futile  re 
sistance  to  the  implacable  conqueror  Hannibal,  on  the  21st  of  May 
216  B.  C. 

NOTE  2.— PAGE  21. 
Along  Voltorno's  vale,  the  rain. 

The  valley  of  Voltorno  takes  its  name  from  Vulturnua,  a  river  of 
Campania,  rising  in  the  Appenines,  and  falling  into  the  Tyrrhene 
Sea,  after  passing  Capua.  The  Bomans,  at  the  battle  of  Cannae, 
suffered  additional  disasters  from  the  destructive  wind  which  blew 
from  the  side  of  the  Vulturnus. 

The  valley  is  noted  for  its  luxuriant  fruitfulness;  although  its 
cities,  towns,  and  marks  of  ancient  splendor,  have  nearly  passed 
away. 

NOTE  3.— PAGE  21. 
Gaeta  only  lives  in  name; 

The  town  of  Gaeta  is  distant  41  miles  north-west  from  Naples, 
and  72  miles  south-east  from  Rome. 

This  town  owes  its  foundation  to  the  Lsestrigones,  and  its  name 
to  the  nurse  of  2Eneas,  according  to  Virgil. 

At  this  spot,  around  the  famed  Hill  of  Formae,  the  Lsestrigones 
made  their  first  settlement,  on  arriving  from  their  fabled  Sicilian 
dominions.  Homer  mentions  Lamus  as  their  Capitol,  which  was 
also  trie  name  of  their  leader.  The  Cathedral  of  Gaeta  contains 
some  curious  and  antique  relics,  one  of  which  is  the  Vase  in  the 
Baptistery,  a  singular  specimen  of  antiquity.  There  is  also  a  cele 
brated  CQlumn  with  twelve  faces,  on  which  are  engraved  the  names 
of  the  different  points  of  the  compass,  in  Greek  and  Latin, 


A   TALE    OF    ITALY.  119 

Between  Mola  and  Gaeta  are  the  ruins  of  Cicero's  supposed  Villa 
•which  he  called  the  Foriuianum,  a  name  derived  from  Forrniae  the 
Hill  above  mentioned,  the  more  ancient  name  of  Gaeta.  In  its  im 
mediate  vicinity,  Cicero  was  put  to  death  by  an  edict  of  the  Roman 
triumvirate. 

•NOTE  4.— PAGE  21. 

Him  who  would  gain  Capua's  gates; 

About  a  mile  beyond  the  present  town  of  Capua,  are  the  ruins  of 
the  ancient  and  celebrated  Capua,  once  the  chief  city  of  Campania, 
of  Etruscan  origin. 

Its  first  founders  called  it  Yulturnus,  by  which  name"  they  des 
ignated  the  river  upon  which  it  stood.  Its  change  of  name  was 
effected  by  the  Samnite  conquerors.  Here  Hannibal  made  his 
residence,  after  his  great  victory  at  Canna.  On  his  departure,  the 
Eomans  visited  their  displeasure  upon  the  place  for  having  made 
him  welcome;  and  nearly  reduced  the  city  and  the  adjacent  country 
to  a  desert. 

At  the  time  of  Julius  Caesar,  the  Senate  thought  of  restoring  it. 
From  this  time  it  began  to  recover  its  former  magnificence  and 
flourished  till  it  fell,  with  the  rest  of  the  falling  empire,  on  the  in 
vasion  of  the  barbarians.  It  contained  at  one  time,  about  800,000 
inhabitants;  and  its  vast  amphitheater  could  entertain  100,000 
spectators.  This  city  was  once  so  opulent  that  it  even  rivaled 
Rome,  and  was  called  altera  Roma. 

The  most  remarkable  lemains  of  its  buildings,  are  the  ruins  of  an 
amphitheater,  of  a  subterranean  gallery,  and  of  a  triumphal  arch. 

On  the  spot  where  it  stood,  has  been  built  the  town  of  Santa 
Maria,  remarkable  for  its  royal  chateau  which  is  one  of  the  most 
magnificent  in  Europe,  known  as  the  palace  of  Caserte,  whose 
architect  was  Vanvitelli;  it  cost  seven  million  ducats. 

The  modern  town  of  Capua  is  noted  for  its  Cathedral  which  con 
tains  some  columns  of  granite  taken  from  ancient  buildings,  some 
good  pictures,  and  various  sculptures  by  Bernini.  The  church  of 
the  Aunonciade  merits  observation;  and  under  the  piazza  of  the 
Place  des  Juges,  are  several  antique  inscriptions;  on  digging  the 
foundations  of  the  acqueduct  for  the  above  palace  of  Caserte,  an 
ancient  tomb  was  discovered  90  feet  below  the  surface,  and  sup 
posed  to  be  2000  years  old. 

NOTE  5.— PAGE  22. 
Antony's  mandate  was  fulfilled. 

The  enmity  which  Cicero  bore  to  Antony  was  fatal  to  him.  Dur 
ing  the  triumvirate  of  Augustus,  Antony,  and  Lepidus,  the  name 
of  Cicero  was  found  upon  Antony's  list  of  proscription.  The 


120  /30ZENZA. 

emissaries  of  Antony  pursued  Cicero  to  Ms  home  near  Gaeta. 

Among  them  was  Popilius  whom  Cicero  had  once  defended  upon 
an  accusation  of  parricide. 

Cicero  had  fled  towards  the  sea;  and  when  the  assassins  came  up 
to  him,  he  put  his  head  out  of  the  litter,  and  it  was  severed  from 
his  body,  by  Herennius. 

This  event  happened  in  December,  43  B.  C.,  in  the  64th  year  of 
his  age.  The  head,  and  right  hand  of  the  orator,  were  carried  to 
Rome,  and  hung  up  in  the  forum.  Cicero  was  not  only  the  first 
orator,  but  he  was,  unquestionably,  the  most  learned  philosopher 
of  Rome. 

NOTE  6.— PAGE  22. 
If  thou  Campagna,  drear  and  lone  ! 

The  desolation  of  the  Roman  Campagna  is  most  oppressive.  The 
stations,  between  the  sea  and  the  "  Eternal  City,"  are  eleven  in 
number;  and  nothing  can  surpass  their  lonely  appearance.  They 
are,  simply,  little  round  hovels  at  alternate  distances— each  sur 
mounted  by  a  wooden  cross,  imparting  to  it  and  the  surrounding 
landscape  a  tomb-like  character  of  utter  desolation. 

A  few  tired  and  demure  ponies,  and  a  stray  shepherd  or  two, 
break  the  monotony  of  the  view. 

While  the  traveler  may  imagine  his  train  drawn  by  oxen — so 
slowly  does  it  advance  over  the  buried  ruins  of  antiquity,  and  past 
the  startled  buffaloes  .that  depart  at  its  approach — the  ferocity  of 
Sylla,  and  the  stealth  of  Cataline  are,  perha,ps,  the  only  harmless 
suggestions,  to  fancy,  that  are  left;  and  with  the  last  rays  of  the 
setting  sun  streaming  their  mellow  light  on  the  Campagna,  "  one 
may  arise  from  his  seat,  in  reverence  to  departed  greatness,"  while 
entering  the  gates  of  Eternal  Rome. 

NOTE  7.— PAGE  22. 
If,  from  the  Aventine's  crushed  dome, 

The  Aventine,  though  not  the  largest  of  the  seven  hills  of  Rome, 
had  upon  it  many  important  temples  and  many  consecrated  altars. 
The  temples  of  Diana,  Flora,  Juno,  and  others,  were  on  the  Aven 
tine. 

The  sites  of  some  of  them,  so  numerous  and  ancient  were  they, 
are  now  questions  of  remote  uncertainty.  The  precise  spot,  where 
stood  the  temple  of  Liberty,  is  not  now  known.  The  Bcma  Dea  is 
supposed  to  have  stood  on  the  site,  afterwards  chosen  by  the 
knights  of  Malta  for  their  church,  St.  Maria  Aventina. 

There  were,  also,  a  temple  of  Minerva,  and  the  sepulchre  of 
Tatius  into  whose  hands  the  gates  of  the  city  were  betrayed  by 
Tarpeia.  Here  was  the  cave  of  Cacus,  the  robber  :  the  identity  of 
this  retreat  has  become  a  question  of  debate  as  to  which  side  of  the 


A   TALE    OF    ITALY.  121 

Hill  it  honored,  and  must  be  left  to  share  the  fabulous  and  classical 
antiquity  of  the  altars  of  Evander  and  Laverna.  Cacus  was  the 
terror  of  Italy  until  strangled  by  Hercules,  some  of  whose  cows, 
Cacus  had  stolen  and  dragged  into  his  cave.  But  the  spot  on  which 
Hercules  erected  an  altar  to  Jupiter  Servetor  in  honor  of  his  victory 
over  the  robber  who  while  vomiting  fire  and  smoke  held  a  brave 
contest  with  his  adversary,  and  the  spot  into  which  the  cows  were 
dragged,  are  places  of  equal,  anxious  inquiry,  and  classic  com 
mentary  by  the  historian  of  to-day.  Other  antiquities,  connected 
with  this  Hill,  are  the  altar  of  Jupiter  Elicius,  the  fountain  of 
Picus  and  Famus,  and  especially  the  temple  of  Juno  Regina  built 
and  consecrated  by  Camillus  after  the  capture  of  Veii. 

NOTE  8.— PAGE  23. 
So  tli on,  fair  Cumsean  Sibyl ! 

The  Cumaean  Sibyl  seems  to  have  been  endowed  with  as  many 
names  as  some  of  our  modern  writers.  She  is  known  b\  the  numer 
ous  and  respective  appellations  of  Amalthaea,  Daphne,  Manto, 
Phemonoe,  Deiphobe,  Herophile  and  Demophile — she  may  have 
possessed  the  latter  name  in  consequence  of  a  suggestive  analogy 
now  obscurely  veiled  in  the  records  of  Mythology.  It  is  said  that  she 
was  seven  hundred  years  old  when  JEneas  came  to  Italy,  and  was 
still  doomed  to  live  as  many  years  as  she  had  grains  of  sand  in  the 
palm  of  her  hand.  She  was  endowed  with  the  length  of  days  by 
some  mysterious  favor  of  Appollo  who  loved  her,  and  sought  in 
vain  from  her  a  response  to  his  passion.  The  doom  of  her  refusal 
was  that  the  years,  though  given  to  her,  did  not  reserve  to  her  the 
bloom  and  beauty  of  her  lovable  days.  She  pined  in  melancholy; 
paleness  and  despondency  succeeded  cheerfulness  and  youthful 
gaiety.  She  in  turn  destroyed  two  thirds  of  her  own  writings,  be 
cause  Tarquin  the  second  refused  to  accept  them.  When  she  offered 
him  the  three  remaining  books,  which  at  first  had  been  nine  in 
number,  he  accepted  them,  regretting  the  loss  of  the  others,  and 
cherishing  those  that  remained  with  the  greatest  care.  They  were 
called  the  Sibylline  verses;  and  so  great  was  the  reverence  of  the 
Romans  for  those  prophetic  books,  that  a  college  of  priests  was  ap. 
pointed  to  have  the  special  care  of  them. 

The  fate  of  the  Sibylline  books  is  not  actually  known,  They  are 
supposed  to  have  been  burned  in  some  of  the  great  conflagrations, 
of  which,  I  have  mentioned  the  Alexandrian  Library  as  being  the 
greatest.  Some  of  those  under  mention  may  have  been  saved,  and 
collected  after  the  burning  of  the  Capitol,  but  this  is  not  assuredly 
known — for,  the  books  now  extant  called  the  Sibylline  verses  are 
eight  in  number,  and  treat  of  much  pertaining  to  the  history  of 
Christ's  Passion  and  the  events  of  the  Christian  era;  for  this  rea 
son  they  are  thought  to  be  subsequent  to  the  original,  and  therefore 


122  COZENZA. 

spurious — they  are,  however,  full  of  sublime  beauty,  and  surpass, 
at  least,  equal  the  predictions  and  descriptions  of  Isaiah;  and  are 
supposed  to  have  been  written  as  Sibylline  in  order  to  influence  the 
judgments  of  pagans  in  the  first  Christian  efforts  at  conversion. 
The  cavern  of  the  Sibyl  consisted  of  one  vast  chamber  hewn  out  of 
the  solid  rock.  It  was  dedicated  as  a  temple  of  Apollo,  and  was 
almost  entirely  destroyed  in  a  siege  which  the  fortress  of  Camse, 
then  in  possession  of  the  Goths,  maintained  against  Narses. 
"  Maiden  of  Cumse  !  Virgin,  like  Iphigenia,  immolated  for  kings! 
Thou  didst  receive  the  kiss  of  Apollo  upon  thy  lips,  the  shadow  of 
the  laurel  on  thy  brow,  the  immortality  of  genius  in  thy  bosom ! 
Thou  wert  formed  to  intone  a  song  of  harmony  which  should  vibrate 
through  countless  ages  !" 

NOTE  9.— PAGE  23. 
"For  relics  of  the  proud  Clev" 

The  efforts  of  England  and  the  United  States,  to  rescue  from 
silent  destruction,  the  Egyptian  obelisks,  are  so  recent,  that  they 
require  but  little  mention  ;  However  we  may  regret  the  removal  of 
those  ancient  monuments  of  art  from  their  centurial  places  of 
native  repose,  it  is  a  matter  of  supreme  relief  to  all  lovers  oi  an 
tiquity,  that  Cleopatra's  needle  was  safely  rescued  from  impending 
loss  at  sea,  during  the  comparatively  recent  transportation  of  the 
one  taken  to  England,  from  the  shores  of  Alexandria.  The  modern 
world  is  perhaps  justified  in  this  preservation  or  desecration  since  it 
is  probable  that  one  at  least,  of  the  needles  of  Cleopatra,  would 
eventually  have  become  burried  in  the  sands  of  Egypt.  More  than 
forty  years  ago  Cummings  found  one  only  of  them  stood  in  Hiero 
glyphic  and  lonely  grandeur; — an  elegant  single  block  of  granite, 
seven  feet  square,  and  fifty  in  height; — the  other  lay  prostrate  and 
already  half  burried  in  the  sand  of  Egyptian  Time. 

NOTE  10.— PAGE  26. 
Deserted  Pisa  !  long  each  towering  dome 

The  Pisa  of  to-day  is  truly  called"  Deserted  Pisa  !"  although 
her  monuments  are  carefully  preserved  and  renovated  by  modern 
art.  The  solitude  is  impressive,  despite  the  brightness  of  Italian 
sunshine  and  the  lively  colors  of  the  painted  buildings. 

Fine  bridges  built  across  the  Arno,  magnificent  road- ways,  an  d 
elegant  houses,  characterize  the  modern  as  well  as  the  ancient 
splendor  of  Pisa. 

When  we  say  "Deserted  Pisa,"  we  realize  her  sublime  contrasts. 
No  more  the  enthusiastic  crusader  departs  from  her  shores  for  the 
fields  of  Asia:  no  more  are  brought  in  return  the  gold  and  ivory 
and  purple  of  the  East:  the  saracens,  who  trembled  on  the  coast  of 
Africa,  fear  not  now  her  gleaming  lances. 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  123 

Where  now  the  mystic  painters  and  masters  of  mosaic,  who  en 
riched  her  monuments  with  the  brilliant  stones  of  Constantinople, 
and  adorned  her  walls  with  the  exquisite  designs  of  their  genius  ? 
Where  now  those  men  of  finest  perception — John  of  Pisa,  and 
Nicholas — who  chiseled  her  rare  marbles,  and  polished  them  to 
splendor  ?  They  Were  to  her  as  the  "dawn  ere  the  day,"  introduc 
ing  her  era  of  inspiration.  She  is  now,  principally,  the  refuge  of 
the  invalid  who  is  soothed  by  her  solitude,  and  protected  by  her 
mountains  from  the  keen  winds  of  the  north.  Pathetically  sub 
lime,  she  is  indeed,  "Deserted  Pisa." 

NOTE  11— PAGE  25. 
Grand  Campo  Santo's  Sculptured  arches  claim. 

The  Campo  Santo  is  the  most  beautiful  solemnity  of  Pisa,  and 
appropriately  located  in  its  most  lonely  district. 

It  has  been  a  cemetery  for  the  last  seven  centuries. 

It  is  a  vast  square  enclosure,  surrounded  by  high  walls,  with 
severe  narrow  entrances;  but  within,  it  is  dazzlingly  splendid  v>ith 
marbles,  and  paintings  and  sweet  foliage — a  dream  of  ecstasy  to 
the  antiquarian,  a  shrine  for  the  study  of  the  artist,  a  place  of  medi 
tation  forever.  Its  architect  was  "John  of  Pisa;"  and  the  holy 
earth  which  first  covered  it  for  the  reception  of  the  Dead,  was  borne 
in  ships  from  Jerusalem. 

There  are  four  Gothic  galleries  covered  in  rich  abundance  with 
luminous  large  frescoes.  Some  of  the  statuary  and  tombs  present 
varied  and  thoughtful  contrasts.  Here  are  preserved  the  pathetic 
appeal,  and  response  of  the  Renaissance :  Endymion  sleeps  on  the 
marbles  of  Campo  Santo,  while  Diana  kisses  his  forehead  with  as 
much  devotion,  as  the  cavalier  of  the  thirteenth  century  who  also 
kneels  upon  the  marbles  and  prays  not  to  the  gods  of  pagan  an 
tiquity. 

The  head  of  Achilles,  and  the  Bacchantes  with  their  empty  cups, 
and  the  Byzantine  virgins,  and  the  prophets,  and  the  evangelists, 
are  here  in  artistic  and  innocent  confusion. 

Here  is  the  Holy  Mother  of  Love;  and  here  is  Venus,  the  grace 
of  Love :— when  the  gods  took  refuge,  for  the  last  time,  in  the 
Pantheon,  they  left  some  of  their  everlasting  protests  and  appeals 
to  the  Christian  world,  in  the  Campo  Santo. 

NOTE  12.— PAGE  26. 
The  gorgeous  festivals  of  Lupercal, 

Lupercal,  an  ancient  Roman  festival,  was  observed  on  the  fif 
teenth  day  of  February,  in  honor  of  the  god  Pan. 

After  the  usual  sacrifices,  the  bloody  knife  was  touched  to  the 
foreheads  of  two  illustrious  youths  who  smiled  at  the  moment  of 
this  performance;  after  which,  the  blood  was  wiped  away  with  a 


124  COZENZA. 

piece  of  soft  wool  dipped  in  milk.  The  skins  of  the  animals  sacri- 
liced  were  cut  into  thongs  which  were  made  into  whips  for  the 
youths  who  were  then  stripped  almost  naked;  and,  armed  with 
the  whips,  freely  attacked  all  whom  they  met  in  the  streets. 

There  were  significant  blessings  and  observances  attached  to  re 
ceiving  the  lashes  by  special  recipients,  particularly,  women.  The 
Greek  name  of  Pan  was  Lycoeus,  from  Lukos,  a  wolf;  and  its  origin 
may  be,  therefore,  still  more  remote  than  the  Koman  one  under 
mention.  Pan,  who  was  god  of  the  shepherds  in  Arcadia,  protected 
the  sheep  from  the  rapacity  of  the  wolves. 

Plutarch  mentions  these  festivals  as  similar  to  those  of  the 
Lycoean  festivals  in  Arcadia;  and  that  they  were  first  adopted  by 
the  Romans  in  honor  of  Lukos,  a  wolf,  which  cherished  Romu 
lus  and  Remus.  The  priests  who  officiated  in  the  Lupercalia  were 
called  Lupuci.  Pan  was  also  one  of  the  eight  principal  gods  of  the 
Egyptians,  worshiped  under  the  form  of  a  sacred  goat;  the  death  of 
this  animal  was  attended  by  universal  mourning  and  a  profound 
fear;  from  which,  the  word  panic  is  supposed  to  be  derived. 

NOTE  13. — PAGE  32. 
Bound  as  to  Sethon,  to  his  life  that  wrong, 

Sethon  was  the  king  of  Egypt  after  the  death  of  Anysis.  He  was 
attacked,  and  strongly  bound  by  the  Assyrians;  but  his  mysterious 
power  was  wonderful,  owing  to  the  fact  of  his  being  a  favorite  priest 
of  Vulcan: — a  number  of  rats  came  in  the  night,  and  knawed  the 
thongs  which  bound  him.  His  powerful  enemy  found  their  arms 
useless  after  one  night,  and  their  captive  miraculously  delivered. 

In  remembrance  of  this  remarkable  circumstance,  a  statue  of 
Sethon  represented  him  with  a  rat  in  his  hand,  and  bearing  the  in 
scription: —  Whoever  fixes  his  eyes  upon  me,  let  him  be  pious. 

NOTE  14.— PAGE  38. 
Unto  the  Sylva,  then  they  took  him:— Fate 

The  Sylva  of  the  Dead,  or  the  common  cemetery,  is,  apart  from 
its  customary  awe,  a  startling  and  interesting  spot  of  record  in  the 
history  of  Palermo — it  being  the  place  fixed  upon  for  the  culmina 
tion  of  the  Sicilian  vespers.  In  those  times,  it  was  a  place  of 
worship. 

The  Sylva  is  a  large  enclosed  field,  outside  the  town,  regularly 
planted  with  the  somber  and  beautiful  cypress,  and  containing  an 
elegant,  little  Gothic  Chapel  in  the  midst. 

Before  the  cholera  of  1837,  it  was  used  as  the  burial-place  solely 
of  the  poor;  but,  at  this  time,  its  undiscriminating  and  terrible 
repose  was  varied  by  costly  monuments  of  the  rich.  The  partic 
ular  features  of  its  arrangements  previously,  were  366  slabs,  in 
tended  to  be  opened,  one  every  day,  and  numbered  for  the  days  of 


UK1VERSITT 

A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  125 

the  year— therefore,  each  one  was  opened  only  once  a  year.  Here 
were  also  some  entrances  to  the  chambers  and  galleries  of  the  cata 
combs,  the  principal  of  which  led  from  below  the  chapel  as  des 
cribed. 

NOTE  15. — PAGE  41. 
The  people  of  Messina  fly  to  us— 

In  this  revolution,  Messina  was,  of  all  the  towns  of  Sicily,  one  of 
the  greatest  sufferers — it  was  reduced  to  ruins.  The  scenes  were 
terrible — burning  hospitals  with  their  inmates — panic  stricken 
fugitives,  vainly  seeking  refuge  on  board  the  English  vessel,  to  be 
repulsed  and  sent  back  to  the  enemy.  Two  battalions  of  young 
men,  aged  only  from  sixteen  to  twenty,  sustained  the  first  effort 
against  the  enemy,  '  'falling  one  after  another  without  yielding  an 
inch — only  eight  remained  out  of  two  thousand."  In  the  affecting 
words  of  an  eye  witness:  "I  was  moved  to  tears  when  they  pre 
sented  themselves  to  the  ministry,  bearing  their  banner,  saying, 
'Here  is  our  banner  !  we  have  been  butchered  !  but  we  have  saved 
our  honor  ! '  ' 

NOTE  16.— PAGE  46. 
Those  men  of  Fate!    0  Palmerston!  what  use 

The  duplicity,  and  reactionary  policy  of  Palmerston  in  those 
momentous  days,  were  wrathf  ully  deprecated  by  most  of  the  Italian 
people:  he  made  them  many  sanguine  promises  on  behalf  of  their 
hoped  for  assistance  from  the  English  government,  which  he  never 
fulfilled;  thereby,  leading  them  to  postpone  eventful  efforts  at 
propitious  times,  and  otherwise  misleading  their  expectations,  and 
throwing  them  off  their  guard,  while  he  secretly  opposed  the  Par 
liament  of  Sicily  that  had  declared  King  Ferdinand  II  and  his 
dynasty  to  have  forfeited  the  throne  of  Sicily  forever.  This  se 
cretive  and  double-dealing  play  of  confiding  resources,  and  inter 
ested  opposing  motives,  cannot  here  be  explained  in  detail.  They 
were,  however,  sufficient  for  the  time  being  to  controvert  the 
trusting  patriots,  and  to  render,  subsequently,  more  deep  and 
bitter  the  determined  efforts  of  the  revolution  for  the  union  of  Italy. 

NOTE  17.— PAGE  48. 
Sbirri  are  knocking  at  the  Sylva's  gate: 

Sbirri  is  the  name  of  the  Italian  police.  The  chief  of  them,  afc 
the  period  mentioned,  was  Maniscalco  in  Sicily — and  Satriano  in 
Naples.  Pontillo,  Bruno,  and  others  whose  names  were  the  terror 
of  the  country,  were  their  brutal  and  remorseless  assistants. 

NOTE  18.— PAGE  48. 

They'll  knock  down  all  the  dead,  until  they  meet 

The  intricacies  of  construction  displayed  in  the  catacombs  of 
Home,  Naples  and  Palermo,  have  been  minutely  described  by  trav- 


126  COZENZA. 

/ 

elers.  The  peculiarity,  here  mentioned,  of  the  stone  niche  con 
taining  the  standing  body  of  the  dead,  being  so  adapted  to  turn 
on  a  secret  pivot,  is  not  uncommon :  the  interminable  galleries  and 
subterranean  corridors,  sometimes  expanding  into  wide  chambers 
or  chapels,  are  often  thus  intricately  connected  by  unexpected 
door-ways,  places  of  ingress  and  egress  not  generally  known,  and 
not  often  used  since  the  days  of  the  Christian  martyrs,  except  in 
times  of  revolutionary  disturbance,  by  the  initiated — as  hiding 
places,  etc. 

NOTE  19.— PAGE  50. 
Eacli  one  of  whom  in  turn  to  other  men 

The  organizations  known  as  the  Carbonari  were  divided,  and 
subdivided  into  comitatos  of  ten — each  man  being  the  head  of 
another  ten.  In  this  way,  the  indefatigable  and  enthusiastic  mem 
bers  were  spread  over  all  Italy,  numbering  thousands  upon  thou 
sands,  all  secretly  devoted  to  the  one  cause — a  constitution  of  the 
people  and  the  regeneration  of  Italy — and  owing  a  general  amenity 
to  one  head,  or  central  coniitato. 

NOTE  20.— PAGE  51. 

Halting,  they  found  themselves  upon  a  mount — 

Monto  Cuccio,  a  mountain  four  miles  from  Palermo.  It  is  said 
to  have  been  a  volcano,  but  this  is  not  certain.  On  the  top  of 
Monto  Cuccio,  are  still  seen  the  ruins  of  a  fine  castle,  built  by 
William  the  First.  Its  beautiful  frescos  remain  on  the  lonely  and 
dilapidated  walls.  It  is  probable,  that  in  former  times,  its  inmates 
had  knowlege  of,  and  access  to  the  neighboring  and  secret  entrance 
of  the  catacombs. 

NOTE  21.— PAGE  58. 

Of  gloried,  lonely,  ancient  Selinon; 

And  near  the  tomb-built  chamber  of  Theron: — 

Skirting  the  picturesque  coast  of  Sicily  from  Palermo  to  the  ru 
ins  of  Selinon,  are  many  pretty  little  towns,  winding  roads,  and 
ancient  quarries.  The  ruins  of  Selinon  are  also  called  Pi/eri, 
owing  to  its  numerous  pillars  and  monumental  aspect— having  the 
appearance  of  a  populous  city  when  approached  from  a  distance. 
It  is  reached  from  Marsala,  after  passing  through  the  smaller  towns 
of  Mazara,  Campo  Bello,  and  Castel  Vetrano.  First,  outside  of 
Marsala,  comes  the  town  of  Luna,  a  stopping  place  for  the  mule 
teers  from  Marsala,  generally  laden  with  Barilla  and  grain  for 
Mazara.  They  do  not  ride,  but  walk  beside  their  animals  from  the 
towns  of  interval  along  their  route.  These  muleteers  are  a  cheer- 
ful;  adventurous  set  of  fellows  who  are  pleasant  to  fall  in  with, 
beguiling  the  tedium  of  journey,  with  traditional  stories  and  in 
terludes  of  sweet,  wild,  mountain  song. 

San  Giuliano  is  about  half  way  from  Marsala  to  Mazara :  near 
San  Giuliano  stands  an  old  tower  called  Torre  Silulina — nothing  . 


A    TALE    OF    ITALY.  127 

more  is  known  of  its  name  or  history.  Here  is  also  cape  Fero,  the 
nearest  rocky  point  to  Africa.  The  white  sails  of  the  fishers'  boats 
around  the  cape,  can  be  seen  when  coming  in  fro'm  the  fear  of  the 
clouds.  At  this  place,  the  coast  is  low  on  the  town  of  Mazara. 
The  latter  town  is  full  of  old  ruins  and  relics  of  Saracenic  interest. 
The  Saracens  landed  here  in  828,  under  Alcamse  who  burned  his 
boats  after  landing. 

Outside  the  walls  of  Mazara,  is  Castel  Vetano.  The  traveler 
may  go  in  a  Feendaco  to  the  quarries  in  the  neighborhood,  from 
which  the  stones  were  taken  for  the  ancient  town  of  Selinon. 

Marshes  in  the  vicinity  of  the  sea  render  Campo  Bello  a  sickly 
place.  In  those  remarkable  quarries,  short  pieces  and  architraves 
are  still  projecting  from  the  banks  of  rock,  as  they  were  at  first 
left  unfinished  by  the  workers,  twenty  hundred  years  ago.  The 
compact,  yellow  stone  of  these  quarries  was  called  Latoima,  by 
the  Greeks.  Campo  Bello  is  the  barony  of  the  Duke  of  Leone, 
who  lives  in  Naples.  Eight  miles  more  of  rugged  road,  woody 
country,  and  splendid  sunlight  on  the  sea,  and  behold — the  ruins 
of  Selinon  rising  from  the  solitary  waste,  but,  as  before  observed, 
appearing  like  a  populous  town  when  seen  from  a  distance,  and 
called  by  the  natives  "Pileri  di  Castel  Vetrano."  The  town  of 
Selinon  was  situated  on  two  hills  now  interspersed  with  melan 
choly  fragments  of  great  size.  The  eastern  hill  commands  a  view 
of  the  place  and  the  sea,  with  an  abrupt  incline  towards  the  beach; 
and  displaying,  along  the  plane  of  its  summit,  the  prostrate  ves 
tiges  of  three  temples  which  lie  in  a  parallel-  line  from  north  to 
south,  distant  forty  feet  from  each  other — simple,  massive,  austere 
Doric.  Of  those  portions,  fronting  east,  the  one  nearest  the  sea 
is  190  feet  long  and  72  feet  broad,  with  beautiful,  fluted  columns; 
The  center  temple  is  less  in  size  than  either  of  the  others.  The 
northeast  one  is  the  largest.  The  celebrated  one  of  Jupiter  Olym 
pus  has  eight  columns  in  front  and  seventeen  at  the  sides.  This 
was  mentioned  by  Diodorus,  and  Herodotus.  It  contained  the 
statue  of  Bacchus  with  head,  hands,  and  feet  of  ivory.  Parts  of  two 
shafts,  one  in  the  portico  and  the  other  in  the  side,  only  remain 
standing,  of  this  great  temple.  Hannibal's  fires  destroyed  Selinon. 
A  lonely  watchtower  stands  by  the  sea,  and  a  bridge,  which  were 
built  of  stones  from  the  temples. 

Cactus,  Palmetto,  and  thistles  interspersed  by  the  mule-roads 
from  the  mines,  cover  this  ancient  district.  Near  by,  is  the  river 
Canna,  and  the«dilapidated  castle  of  Chiarmonte,  and  the  sea  to 
the  south,  eight  miles  to  the  port  of  Girgenti,  or  ancient  Akragas. 
Four  miles  to  the  town,  from  the  port,  by  a  hilly  road  lined  with 
aloes  and  cactus  and  fruit  trees.  As  the  traveler  leaves  Selinon,  the 
golden  light  of  evening  falls  over  the  rich  brown  masses  of  ruins 
that  crown  the  undulating  eminences;  and  their  splendid  gloom 
follows  his  meditative  thoughts. 


128  COZENZA. 

Theron  was  one  of  the  earliest  governors  of  Sicily,  and  was  paid 
divine  honors  after  his  death.  His  tomb  is  also  one  of  the  ancient 
relics  of  this  templed  and  picturesque  coast.  It  is  twenty  nine  and 
a  half  feet  in  height,  composed  of  two  stones — the  lower  one  is  of 
pyramidal  form,  thirteen  feet  at  the  base,  and  nine,  at  the  top; 
supporting  a  second,  decorated  with  Ionic  pillars  at  the  corners* 
and  a  window  in  the  center.  Within,  is  a  vault  ground  floor,  or 
Ionic  chamber;  and  a  small  stairs  of  communication  with  another 
chamber  above. 

When  uninjured,  with  its  inscriptions  and  ornaments,  it  was  very 
beautiful,  as  also  its  situation  classic  and  solemn — a  grove  of  trees 
in  front,  aud  the  temple  of  Concord  in  the  distance. 

NOTE  22.— PAGE  66. 
White  Pyramids  by  Sulphur  mines. 

In  some  of  the  mountainous  districts  of  Sicily,  Sulphur  mines 
are  numerous,  their  existence  usually  betokened  by  little  mound8 
at  their  mouths. 

Their  appearance  in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun  has  a  peculiar 
and  beautiful  effect.  They  can  be  seen  at  a  great  distance,  from 
their  sloping  grassy  expanse;  and  appear  as  though  the  golden 
beams  of  sol  had  been  carelessly  thrown  on  those  summits,  and 
lay  there,  glinting  from  millions  of  points,  in  reflective  splendor. 

NOTE  23.— PAGE  71. 
And  old  Segesta's  Temples  bare, 

There  is  only  one  magnificent  temple  of  Segesta,  or  JEgesta,  re 
maining.  The  other  ruins  consist  of  a  theatre,  broken  pillars, 
capitols  cornices,  and  rubbish,  overgrown  with  weeds.  The  road 
leading  to  it  from  Palermo,  from  which  it  is  distant  some  five  or 
six  miles,  passes  Morreale,  Calatifini,  and  other  small  rural  towns. 
.ZEgesta  is  mentioned  by  Diodorus,  and  Thucidides,  who  claim  it  to 
have  Trojan  origin.  Its  temple  seems  to  have  been  stupendous  in 
size,  and  possesses,  at  least,  the  prestige  of  thirty  centuries — simple 
and  grand,  even  after  the  lapse  of  ages.  It  stands  on  a  slight  eleva 
tion  surrounded  by  its  ruins  and  overgrown  with  weeds  and  grass, 
where  goats  that  might  be  the  very  descendants  of  Pan,  choose 
their  dainty  footsteps  through  intricate  places — otherwise  the  lonely 
desolation  of  centuries  impresses  all  around  with  the  gloom  and 
solemnity  of  death.  Here,  over  broken  pillars  and  fragments,  a 
city  once  stood.  The  temple  is  two  hundred  feet  in  length,  seventy 
in  breadth,  and  sixty  in  height.  It  is  now  roofless,  and  is  in  form, 
a  parallelogram.  The  material  of  which  it  was  built  was  a  sort  of 
calcareous  stone,  though  now  so  blackened  and  dimmed  by  time. 
It  was  once,  probably,  freshly  bright  from  the  numerous  yellow 
quarries  that  abound  in  that  district. 


A   TALE   OF    ITALY.  129 

Thirty-six  columns,  each  six  feet  in  diameter,  supporting  an  or 
namental  frieze,  stood  on  four  large  steps.  On  another  elevation, 
or  little  hill,  called  Varvarro,  stood  the  theatre,  of  which,  the 
foundation  only,  of  the  outer  wall  remains.  Its  area  is  also  filled 
with  the  relics  of  its  fallen  splendor  now  overgrown  with  wild 
Thyme  that  presses  out,  beneath  the  footsteps,  its  pathetic  sweet 
ness  on  the  desolate  air. 

NOTE  24.— PAGE  77. 
From  Olevano— the  great  mounts,  between: 

As  a  mere  mountain,  Vesuvius,  the  greatest  of  these,  is  not  per 
haps  remarkable  except  for  the  awful  associations  of  the  ages  which 
belong  to  it.  The  great  and  terrible  genius  of  death,  so  long  silent, 
with  recollective  regret,  as  it  were,  for  his  former  destruction,  over 
the  desolation  of  Pompeii  and  Herculaneum  ! 

Vesuvius  is  3800  feet  high ;  and  the  fears  entertained  of  its  future 
destructiveness  give  it  a  vivid  and  awful  interest. 

How  dreadful  to  conjecture  that  Naples  may  one  day,  share  the 
fate  of  those  cities  of  the  past:  may  not  the  monster,  so  warily 
slumbering  now,  be  at  the  same  time  nursing  his  secret  fires  for 
a  more  signal  exhibition  of  demoniac  wrath  than  he  has  yet  dis 
played  ? 

NOTE  25. — PAGE  77. 

Cozenza;  in  God's  name,  and  by  our  love, 

The  devoted  and  heroic  wives  and  families  of  the  Italian  patriots 
have  been,  not  the  least,  sufferers  in  the  successive  revolutions  that 
have  consigned  to  the  page  of  history,  as  traitors  or  martyrs,  the 
illustrious  names  of  the  contending  inaugurators.  From  the  days 
of  Fiesco  and  Doria  in  Genoa,  to  those  of  more  recent  strife,  this 
pathetic  and  secondary  woe  is  inseparable  from  the  radiance  and 
the  glory  of  achievement,  and  ahke,  from  the  despair  of  disaster. 

NOTE  26.— PAGE  92. 
Indomitable  way;— in  ev'ry  room, 

The  city  of  Palermo  had  been  bombarded  several  days:  the 
banks  containing  the  valuables  of  the  poor  had  been  burned;  and 
some  of  the  most  peaceful  and  religious  of  the  people,  were  butcher 
ed  in  their  own  convents.  The  street  scenes  were  terrible !  Sometimes 
a  priest  might  be  seen,  raised  on  the  shoulders  of  the  people,  curs 
ing  the  king,  exonerating,  justifying,  and  blessing  the  people,  and 
advocating  their  continued  efforts  until  a  constitution  would  be  ac 
corded  them,  despite  the  lying  subterfuges  and  delays  of  the  arch 
traitor,  "king  Bomba."  Occasionally,  a  forty-eight  pounder  would 
be  discovered  among  the  rocks  near  an  old  fort,  or  buried  some 
where.  This,  mounted  upon  an  ox-cart,  was  dragged  by  the  hands 
09 


130  COZENZA. 

of  the  desperate  and  enthusiastic  people  into  the  city.  One  such 
was  placed  during  the  night  on  the  bastion  of  Porta  Montaldo,  an 
old  bulwark  of  the  city,  which  could  enfilade  the  bastion  of  the 
Palazzo  Reale. 

The  25th  of  January  1848  was  a  day  of  memorable  conflict:  the 
Palazzo  Reale  was  a  large  and  handsome  edifice — a  combination  of 
Saracenic,  and  Norman  style.  Its  site  was,  formerly,  the  residence 
of  the  Carthagenian,  Koman,  and  Saracen  governors.  It  lay  on 
the  western  extremity  of  the  walled  city,  between  the  two  gates, 
Porta  Nuova  and  Porta  Montaldo.  On  the  side,  fronting  the  city, 
there  were  at  that  time,  flanking  the  three  gates,  two  large  forts, 
armed  with  thirty  six  heavy  cannons.  In  the  rear  were  a  rampart 
and  a  moat.  The  large  square  in  front  contained  the  fortified 
places;  8.  Elis  Abbetta,  southward;  Spealale  Civico,  eastward;  and 
8.  Giacomo,  northward.  The  people  attacked  these  formidable 
positions  with  ingenuity  and  sublime  courage.  As  these  buildings 
were  in  continuation  with  others,  holes  were  made  from  house  to 
house  through  the  walls,  every  room  being  the  scene  of  bloody 
strife,  while  the  soldiers  contended  hand  to  hand. 

NOTE  27.— PAGE  95. 
The  next  time  that  Morbili  came,  he  brought. 

The  duke  Morbili  was  the  ubiquitous  Satellite  of  Del  Caretto 
and  the  king.  He  was  also  the  terror  of  Naples,  having  risen  to 
favor  through  his  assiduous  and  vile  services : — a  fire  or  any  other 
calamity  in  those  days  of  his  malicious  exertions,  was  not  a  less 
welcome  visstant  to  any  one  subject  to  his  covert  supervision. 

NOTE  28.— PAGE  102. 
His  minions  sought  her  in  the  barathrum. 

The  horrors  of  the  ancient  Eoman  prisons  are  indescribably 
There  was  in  some  of  them  a  sort  of  trap-door,  or  hole  in  the  floor 
of  an  inner  prison  made  after  the  plan  of  the  Tullianum  and  the 
ancient  prisons  of  Smyrna.  In  the  acts  of  Pionius,  and  others, 
these  are  described,  where  the  jailors  "shut  them  up  in  the  inner 
part  of  the  prison,  so  that  bereaved  of  all  comfort  and  light,  they 
were  forced  to  sustain  extreme  torment  from  the  darkness  and 
stench.  These  pits  or  trapdoors  were  often  nothing  less  than 
openings  to  cess-pools,  or  the  common  sewer,  and  prisoners  were 
sometimes  dispatched  by  being  cast  headlong  into  them. — 

NOTE  29. —PAGE  115. 
Feronia  Goddess  bright:  thy  sacred  woods 

Feronia,  was  principally  the  Goddess  of  manumitted  slaves,  who 
obtained  their  liberty  by  being  seated  in  her  chair, — on  which 


A   TALE    OF    ITALY.  131 

these  words  were  inscribed — "Bene  meriti  servi  sedeant;  surgant 
liberi."  Her  Temple  was  near  Mount  Soracte  in  Latium,  where 
there  was  a  town  called  by  her  name;  saercd  woods  were  her  par 
ticular  delight,  and  fountains  in  which  her  votaries  washed  their 
hands  and  faces  at  solemn  festivals.  Those  inspired  with  the  spirit 
of  this  Goddess,  could  walk  barefoot  over  burning  coals  without 
injury. 

NOTE  30.— PAGE  116. 
Fides!  the  oaths  of  honesty  were  kept. 

Fides  was  the  Goddess  before  whom  the  Eomans  registered  their 
oaths  and  made  vows  of  Fidelity.  Numa  was  the  first  who  ordered 
divine  honors  to  be  paid. 

I  am  indebted  for  many  of  the  details  and  descriptions  in  the 
preceding  notes  to  Castelar's  "Old  Borne  and  New  Italy,"  "W.  F. 
Cummings',  "Notes  of  a  Wanderer,"  and  to  an  old  "History  of 
Sicily"  London  edition, — by  an  English  Army  officer,  its  modest 
Author's  name  or  identity  not  otherwise  given. 


A    LEGEND    OF    THE    RHINE. 

REVISED  AND  ILLUSTRATED. 

SECOND    EDITION. 


AD VE  RTISEMENT. 


"Nonnenwerth,  a  Legend  of  the  Rhine,"  is  founded  upon  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  and  romantic  traditions.  The  scenes  are 
laid  in  the  latter  part  of  the  eighth  century.  The  unhappy  Hilde- 
garde  was  the  Lady  of  Heligoland,  and  was  betrothed  to  Roland 
the  Nephew  of  Charlemagne.  Roland  was  ordered  to  the  wars  by 
his  uncle  the  king :  this  was  on  the  eve  of  their  marriage  which  was 
postponed  until  his  return. 

In  vain  she  waited,  and  he  came  not:  an  occasional  pilgrim's  re 
turn  brought  her  only  indefinite  tidings. 

The  duplicity  of  Lupo  and  Hunald  may,  or  may  not,  be  true: 
I  have  introduced  it,  to  give  some  vivid  realism  to  the  cause  of 
Hildegarde's  sad  resolution.  Lupo  and  Hunald  are,  however,  the 
real  names  of  two  remorseless  enemies  of  Roland — no  doubt,  the 
principal  of  those  at  whose  hands  he  afterwards  met  his  death  at 
Roncesvalles. 

The  "Arch  of  Rolandseck"  only  remains  of  the  once  strong  and 
magnificent  castle  built  by  Roland.  He  chose  for  its  site  the  pin 
nacle  of  Roderberg  overlooking  the  Rhine.  From  its  watch-towers 
could  also  be  seen  the  lake,  and  the  convent  of  Nonnenwerth  in 
which  his  promised  bride,  believing  him  to  be  dead,  immured  her 
self  previous  to  his  long  delayed  return  from  the  crusades. 

Roland  was  the  son  of  Milo,  Count  of  Angiers,  and  Bertha,  sister 
of  Charlemagne.  The  word  "Paladin,"  or  "Palatine,"  afterward 
so  common  in  poetry  as  a  characteristic  designation  of  the  warriors 
of  Charlemagne,  was  first  applied  to  Roland  and  his  followers,  by  a 
Saxon  poet  who  wrote  in  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Arnulphus> 
about  seventy  years  after  the  death  of  Charles.  In  the  dells  of  the 
Pyrenees,  is  yet  shown  a  flower  called  the  Casque  de  Roland;  and 
a  steep  and  rugged  defile  in  the  Crest  of  the  mountain  is  pointed 
out  as  the  "Breche  de  Roland."  Here,  also,  in  the  last  century, 
stood  a  small  chapel,  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  Ronces 
valles,  which  tradition  affirms  to  be  the  resting  place,  of  the  chiefs, 
who,  together  with  Roland,  comprising  in  all  thirty  knights  of  the 
Palace,  fell  victims  to  that  memorable  and  treacherous  the  attack  of 
the  Gascons.  Thirty  tombs  without  inscriptions  were  to  be  seen  in 
the  vicinity;  and  a  quantity  of  bones  was  shown  in  a  cave  under 
the  chapel.  I  have  retained  the  precise  identity  of  this  spot, 
though  three  others  in  the  locality  are  pointed  out  and  severally 
claimed  as  the  burial  place  of  Roland.  What  earth  is  specially  in 
corporated  with  the  clay  of  the  hero  matters  not,  and  is  probably 
unknown. 


1  Thy  crumbling  Arch  yet  stands,  0  Rolandseck; 
Far  up  the  rocky  steep,  of  Drachenfels ; 
There  thrills  the  music  of  the  streams  that  break 
Their  broad  paths  down  to  where  the  blue  Rhine  swells." 

Page  137.— Stanza  /, 


NONNENWERTH. 


A     LEGEND     OF     THE    RHINE. 


I. 

|HY  crumbling  arch  yet  stands,  0  Rolandseck ! 
Far  up  the  rocky  steep  of  Drachenfels  ; 
There  thrills  the  music  of  the  streams  that  break 
Their  broad  paths  down  to  where  the  blue   Rhine 

swells. 

Cold  are  the  craters  of  thy  centuries  ! 
Where  Palatines  have  marched,thy  paths  are  peace; 
And  thy  green  willows  are  yet  dense  in  dells, 
Whence  Charlemagne's  gold   banners   and   bright 

shields 
Went  forth  to  glorious  strife  on  Syrian  fields. 

n. 

Fire-born  the  lava  of  thy  seven  heights ! 
Along  the  river  castled  turrets  rise; 
There  clings  the  ivy  on  the  tinted  blights, 
Soundless  and  luminous  in  evening  skies: 
Repose  hath  starlight  and  the  mingling  wave, 
Decay  hath  sunlight  and*  the  voiceless  grave  ! 


138  NONNENWERTH, 

While  no  clashed  cimeter  to  shield  replies, 
No  charger's  footsteps  near  thy  fountains  fall, 
No  revel  holdeth  in  thy  roofless  hall ! 
Lonely  and  voiceless  now,  from  time's  recall. 

ill. 

How  shall  we  bring  the  records  back,  of  days 
Glad  with  the  laugh,  and  love,  and  eyes  of  life  ? 
The  joyous  brows  that  won  their  knightly  bays  ? 
The  free  high  worth  of  peace,  the  strength  of  strife  I 
The  swan-like  throats  of  music  that  have  sung  ? 
The  deep  vein'd,  fine  soft  glances  that  have   flung 
Sweet  souls  into  each  other,  and  made  rife 
Their  story  with  thine  ages,  freighted  years, 
So  long  since  gone  with  tributes  and  with  tears  ? 

IV. 

Thy  trees  have  fallen  down  to  silent  caves, 
Thy  floors  of  stone  shut  in  the  graves  of  men; 
Rude  piles  make  echoes  from,  the  troubled  waves 
When  winter  night  and  storm  return  again : 
These  are  of  things  not  lost  where  Roland  was — 
Roland  of  crest,  and  lance,  and  bannered  cross ! 
One  of  the  kingly  men  who  said  to  pain, 
Thy  tomb's  a  beauteous  toy,  and  lo  !  the  stone, 
That  rolls  away  from  thee,  is  called  a  crown  ! 

V. 

The  crystal  key  of  contemplation  turns 

In  the  fine  lock  of  auspices,  create 

With  the  old  dust  of  time's  uncovered  urns, 

Blown  sea-ward  unto  thee,  0  Golden  Gate  !  l 


A  LEGEND    OF  THE  RHINE.  139 

Not  of  thee,  Shasta  !  high,  unsullied  peak  ! — 

No  records  hath  it,  of  thy  light  pure  snow,— 

No  armor-laden  rnen,  grown  faint  and  weak — 

There  gladly  lying  down  while  life  ebbed  low  ! 

Thy  grand  Columbian  barriers  ne'er  fell 

Before  invading  footstep;  and  there  lies 

No  shield  or  corselet  buried  in  the  swell 

Of  thy  proud,  stainless  waters  where  they  rise, 

That  like  a  quick  steed  who  abjures  the  spur, 

Boundeth  the  rocks  among  on  freedom's  way, 

Below  the  bending  pine  and  swaying  fir, 

And  the  white  feathery  foam  and  dashing  spray, 

Down  to  the  fields  of  wheat  and  valley  grass. 

Down  to  the  widening  shore  past  flowering  meads — 

No  fierce  Thermopylae  soiled  any  pass 

With  vain,  dead-hates  of  conquests  or  of  greeds. 

VI. 

So  we  are  glad  !  but  as  with  deepening  tone 
Of  low  sweet  music,    and  of  garlands  flung 
Before  some  pale,  sad  cortege  that  alone 
Treads  a  dark  pathway,  so  have  mourners  sung ! 

VII. 


fllte  ^Tamp*of   Charlemagne. 


The  night  had  come  !  Mons  Jovis  under  snow  !2 

And  the  high  calm's  illimitable  gldw 

Of  all  the  midnight  heaven  looked,  as  when 

Hannibal  rested  with  his  weary  men 

Around  the    Temple  whose  dark  walls  then  leaned 


140  NONNENWERTH, 

Against  the  great  acclivity,  half  screened 
From  the  loud  winds  of  Clusa — while  in  sleep 
All  the  still  camp   whose   onward  march   would 

sweep 

O'er  Lombard  cities,  a  dread  destiny, — 
Verona's — Pavia's  sieges  yet  to  be. 

VIII. 

The  king  watched  late  while  others   slept:    he 

thought 

Of  the  high  plans  his  future  actions  wrought; 
And  at  the  morn,  Duke  Bernard's  armor  came 
Across  the  mount  which  keeps  his  lasting  name: 
A  grand  reunion  in  the  valley  made 
Each  equal  glorious  march,  a  toil  repaid, 
With  Charles,  the  greatest  monarch  of  the  Franks: 
Villages,  castles,  towns,  along  the  banks 
Of  Alps  and  river,  on  the  path  he  went, 
Rose  not  with  moan  of  grief,  or  heart's  lament, — 
Not  as  to  despot  on  his  rampart  way; 
But  with  most  welcome   gladness,  gathered  they, 
Bringing  the  palm  branch,  and  the  rose,   and  bay: 
Nor  were  they  sullen  at  Mons  Cinisus; 
With  anthems,  him  they  met,  and  raised  the   Holy 

Cross. 

IX, 

And  here,  with  greeting,  ere  he  pitched  his  tent, 
Where  the  great  mountains   in  the  valley  blent — 
An  Envoy  of  the  East,  most  stately,  sent — 
In  gold  and  silver  garments,  rich  arrayed — 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  EH1NE.  141 

Loaded  with  presents,  while  eight  cymbals  played 
The  hour,  in  which  the  King  his  audience  made: 
With  brazen  bells  and  heralds,  the  advance 
Proclaimed  a  host,  with  pennon  and  with  lance, 
And  gleamed  their  burnished  spears,  like   moving 

flame, 

As  slowly  nearer  to  the  camp,  they  came  :  — 
And  standing,  Haroun's  envoy  thus  addressed 
The  mighty  Emperor  of  all  the  West  :  — 
tl  My  voice,  0  King,  this  hour,  is  Haroun's  will  — 
Not  as  to  Christian,  Hebrew,  Moslem  —  still, 
To  thy  own  greatness  only,  would  he  turn 
As  the  Nile's  lotus  where  the  sun  doth  burn  : 
And  to  the  worth  of  all  thy  famous  deed, 
Which  many  glorious  ends  may  still  fulfill, 
This  adulation  is  his  gracious  meed 
That  I  bear  unto  thee,  and  here  concede." 
x. 

This  said,  his  servant  drawing  near  unrolled 
Fine  silks,  and  talmas  made  of  cloth  of  gold  — 
Byzantine  fabrics  from  the  cities  old  :  3 
Pure   balms,    and   ointments,  and   most  sweet 

perfumes, 

Made  from  the  rarest  flowers  of  Eastern  blooms; 
A  curious  bronze  clock  —  twelve  bright  balls  fell, 
In  just  the  number  that,  the  hour,  might  tell; 
On  a  gold  cymbal  they  were  caught  below, 
As  many  as  the  dial  marked  did  show; 
Its  figures,  windows,  through  which  horsemen  rode 
From  some  inside  mysterious  abode 
Of  clockwork  deftly  made  —  it  is  presumed 


UNIVERSITY 


Y 

s 


42  NONNENWEETH, 

h 

They  were  crusaders  mailed  and  richly  plumed — 
But  what  their  separate  titles,  ranks,  or  names, 
Since  time  remote,  no  deep  conjecture  frames; 
But,  by  all  this,  we  know  that  model  clocks, 
In  this  more  modern  day  of  mines  and  stocks, 
Tell  not  more  nicely,  morning,  night,  or  noon, 
Than  Charlemagne's  clock  did — gift  from  Haroun: 
So  strangely  wrought  and  finely  gilt,  the  whole — 
That,  of  some  magic  life,  it  seemed  the  soul. 

XI. 

And  last  presented  in  her  august  grace — 

The  guards  wide  parted  to  make  clear  her  place — 

A  large  white  elephant,  as  wholly  white 

As  late-bathed  plumes  of  swans  at  early  flight : 

Ah  !  we  can  tell  not  of  her  perfect  praise, 

Taught,  of  the  sun's  warm  travel,  all  the  ways: 

Endearing  things  they  said  along  the  line, 

She  seemed  to  hear;  and  shed,  like  beams  of  wine, 

A  wordless  answer  in  her  eyes  and  mien, — 

A  sacred  symbol  there  among  them  seen, 

An  Indian  goddess  of  Tanjore's  great  shrine: 

And  she  had  for  a  present,  a  large  tent, 

On  her  soft  shoulders,  folded  as  she  went — 

Remarkably  constructed,  its  light  form, 

But  most  impervious  to  the  sun  or  storm; 

And,  bearing  it,  she  knelt  before  the  King: 

— The  canopy  was  costly  she  did  bring, 

In  colors  fine  embroidered,  flower  and  bird— 

And  startled  antelopes,  a  fleeing  herd — 

And  from  the  Koran,  many  a  sacred  word, 


A    LEGEND   OF  THE   RHINE.  143 

Mid  radiating  rays  of  Persia's  sun — 

And  from  the  mountains,  how  the  Ganges  run — 

And  Himalayan  peaks  of  towering  height, 

Whose  scintillating  crowns  of  fadeless  white 

Seemed  to  touch  skies  of  lambent  sapphire  light; 

And  starry-studded,  rubies  mingled  there — 

And  Houris  listening  to  the  moslem's  prayer, 

The  kneeling  suppliant's  lifted  eyes  on  high — 

"A  thing  of  beauty"  was  this  canopy: 

The  mosque's  gold  dome,  from  which  Muezzins  call 

At  sunset,  devotees — displaying  all : — 

"Bismillali !  Come  ye  forth  !  Harkeu,  the  chime  ! 

Mahomet  is  God's  prophet  for  all  time !" 

The  splendid  spire  and  crescent's  silver  gleam, 

Worked  in  its  fabric,  as  in  sleep  a  dream  : 

"  This  for  thy  war  tent  on  the  mount  and  plain, 

0  King  of  all  the  Lombards,  Charlemagne  ! 
And  may'st  thou  live  forever  to  enjoy  !  " 
— Thus  ended  the  fair  speech  of  the  envoy, 

As  set,  behind  the  mount,  the  sun's  last  beam  . 

XII. 

The  listening  King  was  pleased.     With  quiet  joy 
He  answered  :  "Tell  your  monarch  of  the  East 
That  his  fair  message  shall  my  thoughts  employ: 
In  turn,  I  wish  the  Christians  there  released — 

1  will  send  back  with  thee  a  Frankish  priest, 
And  many  Counts  of  retinue  and  state, 
Who  will  more  definitely  this  relate; 

And  still  assure  him  that  as  for  the  rest — 
Reciprocal  regard,  I  do  attest: 


144  NONNENWEKTH, 

He  is  as  I, — he  hath  most  rapid  zeal, 

And  energy  as  bold  as  that  I  feel — 

Magnificent  designs,  and  mind  as  free, 

For  these,  most  high  esteem  he  holds  with  me; 

I  greet  thee  in  his  name,  high  embassy  ! 

In  my  wide,  jovial  camp,  take  needful  rest, 

As  may  seem  fitting  to  a  royal  guest — 

With  recreation  and  all  soft  repose 

That  easy  pastimes  and  thy  will  propose." 

At  this  he  bowed  and  turned :  as  he  arose, 

A  Syrian  monk  that  waited,  now  came  near — 

His  firm  demeanor  modest  and  not  bold, 

But  with  such  mild  obeisance  as  of  old: — 

XIII. 

"Sire,  in  thy  favor  wilt  thou  justly  hear? 

I  seek  thy  gracious  audience  without  fear — 

Thou  listest  all  thy  people  may  disclose  : 

They  send  thee  greeting,  where  blooms  Sharon's 

rose, 

And  ask  through  me  thy  intermediate  aid- 
Now  at  thy  feet,  is  supplication  laid: 
The  journey's  plaint  I  make,  is  sadly  told, 
Since  seventy  thousand  dinars,  tax  in  gold, 
Each  year  at  Bagdad — for  a  bonded  sun 
In  Syria  shines,  the  tomb  of  Christ,  upon. 
Oh  !  in  the  splendor  of  thy  royal  name, 
State  unto  Haroun  that  'tis  cause  of  blame; 
And  for  thy  friendly  care  he  will  requite 
Unto  thy  Christian  sons,  this  tribute's  right." 


A  LEGEND   OF  THE  KHINE.  145 

XIV. 

With  courteous  words  the  monarch  acquiesced  ; 
And,  glancing  o'er  his  knights  in  earnest  quest, 
Singled  out  Roland  from  the  pageant  throng — 
Among  the  beautiful  most  fair  and  strong  : 
Had  he  such  heavy  brows  as  though  the  stroke 
Of  Jove's  long-fallen  bolt,  there  striking,  broke; 
While  in  the  beauty  of  his  grave  lips'  peace, 
Love  turned  itself  as  doth  sweet  sound  in  seas  : 
Forward  he  came  with  radiance  just  subdued — 
His  was  the  fervor  of  that  quiet  mood — 
As  of  the  Spartans,  it  is  said,  no  sounds 
Of  drum  or  trumpet  filled  their  battle  grounds: 
They  needed  not,  to  rouse  their  valor's  will, 
Aught  but  the  touch  of  lyre,  or  lute's  sweet  thrill; 
Because,  within  them,  their  own  souls  did  fill 
Strong  harmonies,  from  deep  confineless  bounds: 
With  rested  lance  he  bowed  touching  the  mane 
Of  his  fine  charger,  and  arose  again, 
With  ready  hand  upon  the  golden  rein. 

xv. 

Then  seemed  the  King  to  give  command  alone, 
But  much  of  tender  pride  its  undertone — 
For  this  fair  nephew  was  the  favored  one  : 
"Canst  thou,  0  Roland,  find  Anselmo,  and 
With  ninety  Counts  depart  for  Holy  land  ! 
Tell  the  good  priest  that  I  such  message  send 
As  you  have  heard  ere  now,  unto  the  end — 
This  to  the  mighty  Caliph  :  that  he  move 
His  heart  of  mercy,  for  my  heart  of  love : 


146  NONNENWEKTH, 

And  give  my  Christian  people,  long  denied, 
The  freedom  of  the  gates  where  Jesus  died.'7 

XVI. 

Three  Squires  gathered  at  a  herald's  call , 

Amarin,  Sarron,  and  brave  Andiol — • 

These  were  the  leaders  of  Count  Roland's  men 

By  mountain  fastness  and  Pyrenean  glen — 

To  whom  he  gave  his  uncle's  orders: — then 

The  day  of  journey  with  import  arrayed — 

So  long  anticipated,  often  stayed— 

With  still  some  unforeseen  event,  delayed: 

Each  cavalier's  proud  grace,  each  lance  in  rest, 

Plumed  helmet,  visor  closed,  cuirass  on  breast, 

And  silken  scarfs  fair  fingers  had  caressed 

While  twining  o'er  the  shoulder  or  the  arm, 

With  tears  and  smiles  of  love,  bedewed  to  charm 

The  pain  of  parting  —the  dread  change  of  chances, 

Could   these    soft   things  protect  from    Paynim 

lances 

The  hearts  beneath  them,  beating  fond  and  true  ? 
The  daring  hearts  of  Mowbray,  Walter,  Hugh, 
Daubeny,     Ralph,    and    Philip  —  all    Knights 

Templar — 

Each  one  the  flower  of  chivalry — exemplar 
Of  deeds  heroic  on  fame's  after  page  ! 
— Its  centuries  a  decade  from  their  Age. 

XVII. 

Peace  to  their  ashes,  under  Syrian  palms  ! 
There  still  the  Arab  rests  to  make  salaams., 
And  cites  the  story-tellers,  gone  before, 


A  LEGEND    OF  THE  RHINE.  147 

With  coffee  cups  and  chibouks  o'er  and  o'er, 
The  great  disastrous  flight,  Noureddin  had  — 
And  here  the  story-tellers  turn  more  sad— 
But  telling  always  their  traditions,  right; 
Alternate  victory,  defeat,  and  flight: 
And  so  they  tell,  most  sadly,  truly,  this 
While  sleep  the  camels  near  the  oasis, 
With  faces  westward  to  the  very  place  he 
Had  come  from  —  Templar  Knight,  Gilbert  DeLacy, 
Who,  while  the  darkness  into  blackness  blent, 
Surprised  Noureddin  in  his  mighty  tent.5 

—  That  night,  Mahomet  fiery  angels  sent 
To  bear  Noureddin  up  to  Paradise 

Where  Kouris  wept  o'er  him  with  tender  eyes  : 

—  While  swift  the  victor  linking,  like  a  wreath, 
The  broken  cimeter  upon  the  sheathe 

Of  his  great  Frankish  sword  —  he  bore  it  far  — 
Its  jeweled  hilt,  bright  gleaming,  like  a  star, 
A  bloody  trophy  of  the  moslem  war. 


XVIII. 

and 


|[hc  Jjarthg  of  jplamt 


But  I  have  mused  too  long,  o'er  foreign  lands, 
And  told  to  soon,  the  story  of  their  years  — 
Forgetting  the  brave  knights'  conjoining  bands, 
And  their  fair  *  'Lady-loves"  in  smiles  and  tears  ! 
—  But  while  they  gathered  all,  one  rode  apart, 
Not  least  in  valor,  but  most  sad  at  heart: 
We  shall  know  what  he  did  —  that  eve  he  went 


148  NONNENWEETH, 

To  make  a  sweet  farewell,  when  skies  were  blent 
With  the  late  day's  deep  purple  and  red  gold, 
And  from  the  fields  the  lambs  hied  to  their  fold; 
Almost  inaudible  his  stepping  steed 
That  bruised  the  dewy  perfumes  on  the  mead : 
— Into  the  mountains  rode  he  shortly  then, 
Where  the  dark  cypress  waved  in  every  glen — 
Each  dun,  dread  precipice  in  sombre  calm 
Held  the  grapes  ripening,  while  ethereal  balm, 
With  gifts  of  fire,  as  hearts  with  visions  blending, 
Fed  them   from  rocks,   on  which  they  grew  de 
pending 

Like  webs  in  winter,  rock  to  rock  enlaced;  6 
O'er  the  basaltic  walls,  the  vine  stems  traced, 
Where  green  their  garlands  in  the  summer   hung: 
Along  the  eddying  stream  their  leaves  were  flung — 
Great  terraces  of  gloom,  or  vernal  sheen, 
Above  the  winding  river  grandly  seen. 

XIX. 

A  bridge  across  the  Nahe  near  Bingen  stands; 
Beneath  it,  soft  waves  over  shining  sands, 
With  many  arches  pillared,  grand  and  old — 
Onward  from  thence,  the  road  to  Niederwald: 
Here  Roland  lingering  rode  and  hastened  not, 
His  pace  in  keeping  with  his  saddened  thought, 
In  fancy  listening  to  each  fairy  grot 
Below  the  little  stones  whose  murmurs  made 
Indefinite,  strange  sounds  that  chainless  strayed : — 
These  were  the  haunting  Gnomes  of  Whisperthal,  7 
Dwelling  in  small  cascades  of  pebbly  fall — 


1  A  bridge  across  the  Nahe  near  Bingen  stands; 
Beneath  it,  soft  waves  over  shining  sands, 
With  many  arches  pillared,  grand  and  old^ 
Onward,  from  thence,  the  road  to  Niederwald:" 

Page  148.— Stanza  JTIJT, 


A  LEGEND   OF  THE  RHINE.  149 

Their  voices  wierdly  unto  him  did  call: 

"  Return,  delay  !  O  Roland,  do  not  pass  ! 

The  Lorch  lies  in  the  sun,  Roland,  alas ! 

All  the  dreamy  day  in  cymar  of  gold, 

The  Lurly  maiden  sits  where  cliffs  are  cold  ; 

Swiftly  her  white  hands  in  the  sunset  shine, 

With  gleaming  golden  comb  and  tresses  fine  : 

Thou  knowest  well  the  lifted  eyes  that  haunt 

Her  wondrous,  manifold,  sweet,  thrilling  chant — 

Roland  !  return,  delay  !   Oh,  do  not  pass ! 

The  sounding  falls  are  near,  Roland,  alas !" 

xx. 

But  soon  to  silvery  beechwoods  he  had  come, 
Where  summery    bee  and  flower   with   wings  and 

hum, 

Changed  the  dark  current   of  his  thought's  day 
dream  ; 

A  fading,  dim  perception  it  did  seem 
To  an  o'er  anxious  passion  of  forethought, 
With  hope,  and  fear  and  tenderness  enwrought. 
"Ah !  such,"  he  mused,  "is  the  proud  soul's   dis 
guise — 

Who  will  admit  fate  takes  him  by  surprise  ? 
And  we  are  pleased  with  such  imaginings — 
To  hold  its  wayward  reins,  to  plume  its  wings — 
Or,  out  of  long  sweet  sighs,  to  charm  a  strain 
For  festal,  deep  repeatings  of  such  pain, 
Some  way  to  wear  the  soul,  than  it  is  worn — 
Yet  always  seen,  the  forehead  and  the  thorn ! 
Oh,  I  shall  see  her  weep  for  this,  I  fear ! 


150  NONNENWERTH, 

Thou,  rose  of  fragrance,  needest  not  a  tear, 
Since  dew-falls,  nightly  to  thy  full  heart  come : 
My  fathers !  dare  I  wish  these  lips  were  dumb, 
That  oft  with  clarion  deeds  thy  names,  recalled  ? 
How  shrink  they  now  at  this  sweet  lover  appalled  P* 

XXI. 

Gone  are  thine  ivied  years,  sad,  lone  and  fleet — 
And  of  their  things,  long  lost,  the  bowered  seat 
Near  a  grey  lintel,  where  sat  Hildegarde :  . 
The  lintel  there  is  yet  time-stained  and  marred  ^ 
And  all  the  lofty  Keep  of  Ehrenfels, 
Whose  roofless  walls  amid  the  forest  stand —  8 
Their  tumbled  fragments  dimly,  darkly  grand  : 
Near  by,  the  beautiful  and  blue  Moselle's 
Bright,  limped  waves   are   flowing  to  the   Khine» 
As  though  no  note  were  kept  of  ruin's  sign : 
A  peasant  guide  walks  there  to-day,  and  tells 
How  many  hundred  years  have  made  it  old, 
In  those  dense  oaken  glooms  of  Niederwald : 
• — Strangers  oft  rest  beneath  its  beechen  shade^, 
To  view  the  beauties  found  in  every  glade; 
And  to  the  chapel  on  the  hill-side  climb, 
Among  the  vineyards  of  sweet  Rudesheim, 

XXII. 

That  freighted  hour  he  feared ;  his  footstep  stayed 
Short  of  the  moonlight  on  the  open  glade  : 
How  should  he  comfort,  in  the  sad  ordeal, 
The  sorrow,  half  whose  weight  he  too,  must  feel  ? 
Ah,  but  the  interludes  of  thought's  excess — 


A  LEGEND   OF  THE  RHINE.  151 

These  had  not  time  to  make  it  more  nor  less — 
Some  fervor,  held  just  close  to  consciousness, 
Made  Hildegarde  perceive  that  he  was  near — 
His   step- — leaned   forward,    pausing — she   might 

hear ! 

And  straight  she  waited,  listened,  saw  him  clear  : 
Then  hastening,  but — why  state  with  any  word, — 
To  those  who've  mourned  it,  'tis  but  anguish  stirred, 
Or  as  a  touch  rude  on  a  sweet  lute-chord — 
To  those  who  have  not  known  it,  'tis  but  fraught 
In  words,  with  meanings  pale,  like  statues  wrought. 

XXIII. 

Let  us  not  linger  o'er  what  soon  she  knew  : 
At  first,  she  scarce  believed  it  could  be  true- 
That  they  must  part,  that  he  should  journey   far, 
O'er  pathways  distant  unto  dangerous  war, 
Or  as  the  knightly  envoy  of  the  king — 
But  oh,  what  tidings  might  the  future  bring  ! 
Anticipating  all — dim,  tear-wet  lids, 
Whose  pride's  supremacy,  the  tear  forbids : 
Then  sudden  quivering  agony,  all  white — 
Forgetting  pride's  commanding  sense  of  right — 
Quick  pain,  yea,  quick,   or  it  had  killed  her  quite  ! 
— What  said  he  then  ?  no  word ,  but  his  light  hand 
Rested  on  hers,  as  silent  he  did  stand. 
"  Oh,  I  had  thought,  with  lute  and  garlands,  thou 
Would'st  come,  beloved,  not,  alas,  as  now !" 
So  near  his  restful  shoulder — timid — yet, 
Only  her  white  hand  on  it  lightly  set, 
She  questioned  not  of  love's  repeated  vow  : 


152  NONNENWEETH, 

With  resignation's  smile  and  griefs  release, 
She  now  had  come  from  struggle,  into  peace; 
And  touching  her  soft  lips  to  his  fair  brow — 
He  kissed  her  with  some  quick,  impulsive  will — 
And  then,  she  leaned  her  head  down  and  was  stilL 

XXIV. 

Oh,  shadowy  vail's  foreboding,  not  revealed  ! 

It  breathed  in  his  soft  accents,  and  was  sealed 

In  the  firm,  tearless  glance  of  her  dark  eye, 

The  imposing  calm's  restraints  of  agony, 

As  those  great,  slumbrous  banks  of  Indian  palm, — 

Along  the  low  coast  of  Coromandel, 

The  spray,  their  nurture,  and  the  Ocean's  swell — 

Are  quiet  near  the  coming  of  the  sea, 

Their  deep  roots  in  a  reefs  captivity, 

While  all  the  Monsoon's  desert-laden  balm 

And  burning  winds  sweep  o'er  them  utterly. 

xxv. 

"  My  dear,  when  I  am  gone,  beware  Hunald  ! 
Along  the  Spanish  march,  his  deeds  are  told — 
Reckless  and  subtile ;  violent  and  bold ! 
And  of  his  kinsman  Lupo7  too,  beware  ! 
He  gave  me  once  a  troth  not  free  or  fair — 
Let  them  not  injure  thee,  my  flowret  rare  !" 
"  Yea,  sweet,"  she  said,  "  resigning  thee,  I  will, 
In  all  high  faith's  collectedness,  fulfill 
Thy  love's  behest,  each  day  and  hour  I  live, 
While  slow  the  long  months  pass,    or  long   years 

grieve ! 
Yea,  sweet,  I  am  content  through  burning  ill; 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  KHINE.  153 

My  soul  hath  its  completeness  :  love  will  fill 
Immortal  aisles  of  heaven,  though  this  earth, 
With  sounding  waves  of  sea  and   clouds  of  dearth, 
Whelm  all  its  quivering  throbs;  and  never  pour, 
Upon  its  censor  fires,  one  token  more." 

XXVI. 

Thrilled  with  remembrance  of  his  sweet  caress, 

Then  in  her  eyes  of  gentle  smilingness, 

Some  high  resolve  whose  deep  flush  filled  her  heart, 

As  when  the  sunset  on  the  sea  grows  less 

To  splendors  gathered,  ere  it  all  depart : 

Buoyant  and  transient,   were  this  charming    force, 

But  for  dominion  of  the  mind's  resource — 

Its  firmness  and  its  tenderness  one  course, 

Whose  pause  of  love,  these  governed  aspects  bless, 

Despite  the  heart's  importunate  distress 

Of  sweet  contending  powers,  with  wielding  will 

And  some  faint  echo  of  the  voice  : — "  Be  still !" 

Eternal  starlight  in  the  trembling  air, 

Thou  art  alone  forever,  everywhere  ! 

— His  foot  departed  from  the  marble  stair, 

This  loneliness  was  hers — left  standing  there. 

XXYII 

But  who  were  Hunald  and  the  feared  Lupo,  9 

In  Roland's  anxious  thoughts,  forecasting  woe  ? 

They  were  the  aids  of  treacherous  deeds  oft  done,— 

The  wicked  brother,  and  perfidious  sou 

Of  Abu  Taurus,  Saracen  Emir — 

Oft  his  Damascus  blade's  swift,  fatal  whirr, 


154  NONNENWEKTH, 

Struck  vainly,  Roland's  mirror-polished  shield 
In  many  a  mountain  breach,  and  valley  field — 
At  last,  twas  Abu  Taurus  had  to  yield: 
Then  Pampeluna's  jeweled  medal  bright, 
Was  struck  for  Roland's  memorable  fight : 
The  hostages,  exacted,  were  these  two; 
Hunald  and  Lupo  nearest — son  and  brother — 
Than  whom  Taurus  had  given  any  other — 
With  tribute  promised  and  submission  true. 

XXVIII. 

In  secret  not  submissive  :  every  line 
Of  his  dominions,  he  had  to  resign, 
Contested  hard,  each  Pyrenean  province — 
Their  mutual  valor  well  remembered  since : 
Yet,  terms  complied  with,  and  rich  tributes  sent 
By  Abu  Taurus  to  the  kingly  tent; 
While  many  garrisons,  had  Charlemagne, 
To  keep  submissive  to  his  anxious  reign, 
The  restless  Emirs  in  subjection's  chain — 
From  Biscay's  bay,  to  Lyons'  gulf,  the  whole 
Of  empire  conquered  had  such  armed  control: 
But  still  rebellious  Lupo,  and  Hunald, 
By  Abu  Taurus,  to  revolt,  were  called — 
Till  at  most  bitter  cost,  all  Aquitaine 
Was  finally  reduced  by  Charlemagne. 

XXIX. 


f  v  4 


rusaxlcr's   Jjounug, 


The  soft  unfolding  purple  of  the  dawn — 
Beyond  the  misty  hills,  like  some  vast  throne — 
Beyond  the  utmost  mounts  whose  hamlets  kept 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  RHINE.  155 

The  previous  night  late  vigils  and  now  slept : 

At  day,  the  files  of  burnished  steel,  aflame — 

All  musical  with  movement  and  the  name 

Of  fair  Jerusalem,  advancing  slow, 

Like  strong  tides  in  deep  unison,  to  flow 

In  one  long  segregated  mass,  the  line — 

Their  standards  eastwards  turned  to  Palestine: 

What  ardor  or  what  sorrow  there  was  pent, 

The  martial  trumpets  drowned,  enhanced,    or  lent 

A  last,  note  of  farewell — none  should  repine — 

Bright  waving  hands,    last  looks — on   march  they 

went, 
Kings,  pages — all  the  knightly  tournament. 

xxx- 

How,  in  high  reverence  were  there  unfurled, 

Bright  banners,  face  ward  to  the  Eastern  world : 

Behind  them,  silence  and  their  parting  tears; 

Before  them,  effort  and,  perhaps,  long  years ; 

The  green  shore's  murm'ring  current,  and  the  close 

Of  each  long  weary  day  to  eve's  repose  ; 

The  ridge  of  rock,  the  story  vale,  the  plain, 

Some  Gothic  citadel — the  vale  again: 

The  straggling  line  of  horse,  the  strongest  few 

Contending  swift  ahead  for  the  first  view : 

— For  every   morn    brought   warmer   skies  more 

blue — 

And  holy  scenes,  historic  childhood  knew  , 
And,  every  eve,  some  blessed  spring  or  well, 
Beside  whose  grassy  rim  they  camped  to  tell 
How  many  leagues  were  passed,  how  many  yet 


156  NONNENWEETH, 

• 

To  Christian  spire  or  Moslem  minaret, 
That,  in  the  distance  to  their  longing  eyes, 
Seemed  with  new  hope  replete  or  with  surprise — 
Each  step  so  fondly  marked  in  Holy  Writ : 
— After  long  hours  of  ride — resting  at  last, 
Dismounted  from  their  horses,  they  might  sit 
In  shady  dells  the  Maccabees  had  passed,10 
Or  view  a  castle  old,  'twas  said,  they  built — 
Beside  whose  shrine  they  knelt,  and  kissed    the 
Cross  sword-hilt. 

XXXI. 

Mounted  again — again  the  stony  vale: 
They  journeyed  mostly  then  at  twilight  pale  : 
Still  intervening  hills — there  seemed  no  end: 
The  rocky  landscape,  up  and  down  did  blend : 
Hills  seemed  to  multiply  beneath  their  feet — 
The  horses  sometimes  weary,  sometimes  fleet: 
At  last,  an  ancient  castle's  towers  they  saw — 
They  stopped  a  moment  in  subduing  awe — 
Reined  in  their  bridles — gazing  the  first  time 
Upon  Jerusalem,  sacred — sublime ! 
— Not  easy  to  describe  the  emotions'  throng 
Filling  the  Christian  breast  when,  after  long 
And  toilsome  journeying,  the  olive  shade 
Gives  welcome  on  the  slopes  of  Gihon's  glade — 
The  pools  of  Grihon  where  a  King  was    crowned,11 
The  Bard  of  Canticles — each  storied  mound 
Commands  the  battlements  that  rise  above 
The  long  desired — the  city  of  their  love  : 
"  Jerusalem  !  Jerusalem  !"  they  said — 


ITT 

A  LEGEND   OF  THE   SHINE.  157 

Not  saying  more  :  in  transport's  awe,  dismayed, 
Some  wept  in  rapture  on  each  other's  breast; 
And  some,  the  sacred  earth,  low  kneeling  pressed. 

XXXII. 

They  entered  by  the  Bethlehem  gate  at  noon, 
When  parleying  with  the  guards  had  ended  :  soon 
They  found  sweet  rest  by  fount  and  Olive  shade, 
After  the  toil  and  dust  of  journey  made, 
Within  the  Latin  Convent — guests  they  came, 
With  letters  heralding  their  angust  fame; 
But  nought  they  saw,  after  that  first,  far  view, 
Could  with  such  awe's  impress,  their  souls  imbue : 
— Beside  the  roadway,  on  bright  carpets  spread, 
Were  groups  of  grave  Turks  sitting,  each  dusk  head, 
Bound  with  a  turban  rich  of  Persian  stripes — 
In  silence,  dignified,  they  smoked  their  pipes; 
And  old,  white-bearded  Jews,  beneath  the  walls — 
The  glory  of  whose  race,  nought  now  recalls — 
Dilating  to  diciples,  of  its  splendor; 
And  with  imposing  glance,  raised  sadly  tender, 
In  deprecation  to  the  terraced  tower, 
O'er  which  the  crimson  flag  of  Turkish  power, 
Above  the  conquered  city,  heavy  floating — 
The  Christians,  not  less  sad,  the  emblem  noting. 

XXXIII. 

Descending,  from  the  convent,  a  steep  hill, 
At  early  morn  they  passed  the  holy  door — 
Its  Gothic  front  and  steps,  the  same,  are  still, 
Where  the  long  tides  of  constant  ages  pour  : 


158  NONNENWEKTH, 

About  the  courtway  of  the  front  and  side — 
A  throng  of  various  people,  occupied  : 
There  wer3  some  pious  merchants  selling   beads12 
And  crucifixes,  and  such  holy  ware ; 
Some  beggars  in  the  court  explained  their  needs: 
Some  early  votaries  were  kneeling  there  : 
The  Turkish  door-keepers  had  not  arrived — 
They  kept  the  Church-keys  as  they're  kept  to-day — 
So  Eoland  and  his  comrades  then  contrived 
To  make  the  hours  of  waiting  pass  away, 
With  much  comment  on  such  restriction  made  : 
Their  presents  on  the  Sepulchre  were  laid, 
Together,  with  some  alms,  meant  for  the  poor, 
By  passing  them  through  holes  made  in  the  door — 
This  did  the  pilgrims  too,  who  hither  strayed: 
The  monks  inside,  received  then},  with  a  word 
Of  prayer  or  blessing,  softly  outside  heard: 
At  last,  the  door  was  opened — helmets  off, 
And  shoes;  and  turbans,  did  the  pilgrims  doff: 
Mahomedan  and  Christian,  Jew  as  well — 
An  equal  reverence,  each  act  did  tell. 

xxxiv. 

Those  trains  of  worshipers  are  passed  away — 
There,  other  trains  of  worshipers,  to-day: 
Pilgrim  and  priest,  the  holy  slab,  they  kiss, 
Is  under  hanging  lamps,  and  polished  is 
With  fine  and  sacred  keeping;  waxen  light 
Of  three  large  tapers  many  feet  in  hight, 
In  front,  and  at  the  ends, — the  lustrous  gleam 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  RHINE.  159 

Of  that  which  lies  below  reflects  each  beam: 
On  this,  was  washed  for  burial,  they  explain, 
The  glorious  body  of  the  Lord,  when  slain. 

xxxv. 

The  place  in  which  the  pious  Empress  sought 
The  Holy  Cross  long  hidden  from  all  view;13 
When,  with  the  crosses  of  the  theives,  'twas 

brought — 

Her  anxious  doubts,  to  know  which  one  was  true  : 
Pious  Helena  !  thou  art  not  alone  ! 
The  superscription  broken  off,  and  thrown 
Into  the  town-ditch  or  a  vault  near  by, 
Too  long  forgotten,  oft  may  careless  lie: 
But  two  were  thieves'  crosses — what  verity  ? 
Only  a  miracle  could  testify, 
The  one  cross  holiest,  the  sacred  one 
Whose  beam  owned  the  inscription;  thou  did'sttry: 
And  for  thy  sake,  this  miracle  was  done  : 
— A  noble  lady  sick  and  ill  at  at  ease, 
And  long  in  suffering  without  hope  or  peace, 
Thou  did'st  make  touch  it ;  and  she  was  restored ! 
— A  young  man  dead,  and  by  his  friends  deplored, 
Was  ready,  made  for  burial;  but  taken 
Out  and  laid  on  it — lo,  he  did  waken  ! 
Forgive,  all  ye  who  may  not  this  believe, 
That  I  repeat  it — I  would  not  deceive ! 
Almost  incredulous,  perhaps,  but  still- 
Still  must  the  heart  contend  with  reason's  will, 
These  metaphysic  miracles  of  truth, 
I  learned  to  love  in  faith's  sweet  days  of  youth ! 


160  NONNENWEKTH, 

XXXVI. 

To  other  holy  places  Roland  went, 

At  every  shrine  his  knightly  knee  was  bent; 

In  dismal  chapels ;  over  ancient  tombs  : 

Where  Arimathea's  Joseph  sleeps  :  the  rooms 

Built  over  these,  so  ancient  holy  spots, 

Have  not  changed  ought  beneath  them;  the  same 

grots 

Hollowed  in  Calvary's  unmelting  rock: 
The  fissure  still  shown—  of  the  earthquake  shock — 
That  Roland's  eyes  looked  on,  as  so  ours  might, 
The  subterranean  chapel's  gloomy  light 
Not  all  concealing  it — as  when  Christ  died — 
From  floor  to  ceiling  up  the  chapeFs  side  : 
The  stone  on  which  the  angel  sat,  when  risen 
The  dead  Lord,  he  had  watched,   three    mournful 

days: 

The  hall  of  flagellation,  and  the  prison 
Of  Peter;  and  the  hollow,  rocky  place 
Where  they  laid  Jesus — this  is  rarely  seen — 
A  marble  altar,  built  o'er  it,  a  screen. 

XXXVII. 

Before  all  these  his  meditations  blent 

With  prayer  and  silence,  until  called — his  tent 

Was  strapped  for  travel — to  the  Caliph's  Court: 

When  at  the  Convent  gate,  blew  loud   and    short, 

A  herald's  bugle  note.     (t  Behold  !"  he  said, 

"  7Tis  Haroun  comes  himself  through  Grihon's  glade, 

With  royal  courtesy  to  wait  on  me: 

My  Squires!  our  journey's  toil  will  needless  be ! 


A  LEGEND    OF  THE  RHINE.  161 

Let  us  go  forth  to  meet  him,  where  he  comes, 
With  our  own  noble  banners  and  brave  plumes ! 
Not  less  must  be  our  condescending  state,  «• 
Nor  less  our  consciousness  of  it !"  Elate 
And  glad,  the  watchers  viewing  from  the  towers, 
The  royal  traveler  distant  yet  some  hours, 
They  saw;  then  hastening,  a  selected  band 
Went  forth  to  meet  him — Koland  in  command. 

XXXVIII. 

And  lo  !  what  silver  sheen  neath  azure  skies 

Glitters  resplendent  before  Roland's  eyes  ? 

Can  he  believe  his  sight  ?     An  infidel 

Eaising  the  Christian  standard  to  the  swell 

Of  the  upfloating,  balmy,  summer  air  ? 

He  sees  aright;  in  awful  truth,  'tis  there — 

Its  silken  model  hung  with  garlands  rare : 

The  Dead  Christ  on  the  cross,  in  wreath  of  thorns — 

This  sign,  'tis  known,  the  Mussulman  ne'er  scorns: 

The  Heart  of  Mary,  Mother — seven  swords, 

Transfixed — all     there     portrayed  :  — some     latin 

words : u 

Two  silver,  pendant  chains  together  meet, 
Where  hang  three  golden  keys — 0  signs  complete  ! 
Ye  mean  the  ransom  of  your  sacred  gates — 
Your  bloodless  glory,  upon  Roland  waits! 

xxxix. 

"  Behold  !  O  Prankish  chieftain  !  we  are  come 
To  give  thee  welcome,  from  thy  western  home  ! 
Here  are  the  Keys  of  Olivet's  high  dome, 


162  NONNENWEKTH, 

Where  solemn  centuries  have  long  reposed 5 
And  to  thy  hand,  is  given,  to  be  closed 
Or  opened,  at  thy  will,  the  Sacred  Tomb  /" 
Roland,  at  this,  bowed  low  his  sable  plume — 
Adoring  awe  shared  on  his  face,  sad  gloom: 
Haroun  al  Raschid  knew,  ere  all  expressed, 
The  pledged,  devoted  care  that  filled  the  breast 
Of  the  fair,  brave  crusader — his  request 
Was  thus  complied  with,  graciously  and  soon : 
They  pitched  their  tents  then,  at  the  hour  of  noon, 
And  lingering,  joyous,  did  the  camps  rejoice 
By  marble-margined  founts  with  cascade  voice, 
And  shaded  plats  of  Olive — memories 
Of  sanctity  and  hospitable  peace : 
— Yea,  though  a  stranger,  so  his  task  was  told ; 
And  Roland,  faceward,  turning  to  the  west — 
All  haply  ended  his  so  sacred  quest — 
He  then  departed  from  the  lands  grown  old. 

XL. 

To  follow  far  the  paths  of  deadly  war — 
The  strife  of  Catalonia,  fierce  Navarre  ; 
To  dream  by  campfires  in  the  Cevennes — 
Of  home  and  Hildegrade,  of  Love  and  Peace: 
4<Yet  shalt  thou  meet  with  Lupo,  Roland,  when 
The  Saracen  tumults  give  thee  release  ; 
But  dark  the  Pyrenees  in  every  glen, 
Be  guarded  with  all  care,  and  cautiously; 
Thick  woods  in  ambush  may  encompass  thee  :77 
This  said  the  King:  "  shall  not  be  hushed  the  sea, 
Till  all  his  rash  affirms  of  wrath  with  me 


A    LEGEND   OF  THE   RHINE.  163 

Are  well  fulfilled, — replete  with  dastard   pain — 
Ha  !  that  he  dares  contend  for  Acquitaine  ! 
The  turbulent,  proud,  vassal — reckless  still — 
Rebels,  and  so  must  feel  my  power's  will  I" 

XLI. 

Revolt  was  struggling  still  in  Aquitaine; 
Much  effort,  to  the  monarch,  did  remain, 
To  firmly  organize  each  new-made  state, 
With  judgment  without  triumph — ne'er  elate 
Was  the  great  genial  King  o'er  the  subdued — 
Providing  loyal  government,  and  good  : 
But,  while  arranging  these  details,  some  strife, 
Impending  on  the  Saxon  north-frontier, 
Divided  his  attention,  there  and  here: 
The  Saracens  collected,  ever  rife 
For  tumult's  chances ;  and,  not  having  fear, 
Since  this  dread  news  had  called  the  King  away, 
They  poured  down  into  Arragon,  that  day : 
?Twas  Roland,  they  attacked  ;  twas  Roland  met 
The  terrible  onslaught,  remembered  yet, 
Of  Saragossa's  fierce  contested  hours — 
Thousands  of  Saracens  slain  round  its  towers — 
The  mist  of  history,  dimly  o'er  it  lowers : 
But  that  great  victory  of  the  valliant  Franks, 
To  Roland  de  Roncevalles,  owes  equal  thanks. 


164  NONNENWEBTH, 


hrenfelg. 


Elsewhere,  what  times  of  change  did  intervene 

At  Ehrenfels  ?  Fair  Luidgarde  the  queen 

Had  come  to  dwell  with  her  young  maiden  friend: 

They  now  were  three  together,  with  the  mother 

Of  Hildegarde,  companions,  to  the  end — 

In  absence  of  the  husband,  friend,  or  brother — 

That  separate  loneliness  might  lessened  be, 

And  days  of  hope,  passed  uneventfully. 

t(  Issem  !  hang  helmets  on  the  towers,  to-day; 

Perchance,  some  pilgrim,  hitherward  may  stray, 

In  weariness  to  rest,  with  palm  and  staff  ; 

Thou  art  not  mindful  of  their  needs,  not  half! 

Look  out,  and  see  what  rustles  through  the  wood? 

Or  tramples  in  the  valley  !"     Issem  stood, 

A  watchman  on  the  battlements,  in  vain  : 

No  golden  spurs  came  over  field  or  flood, 

No  crested  helmet  glinted  on  the  plain  : 

Soundless  the  horn  of  Issem,  every  eve, 

After  the  day  passed,  while  she  lived  to  grieve. ' 

XLIII. 

"Change  watch  good  Issem,  until  dawn:  and  lay 
The  lights  along  the  ramparts — he  may  come  ! 
Be  not  unmindful  of  who  speed  this  way  !'7 
Issem  incredulous,  of  hope,  seemed  dumb: 
— So  speaking,  Hildegarde  in  patient  gloom,. 
Looked  from  the  lofty  windows  of  her  room; 


A  LEGEND   OF  THE  EHINE.  165 

And  in  her  voice,  once  sweetness  all  there  was, 
The  tone  most  over-sweet,  grown  querulous, — 
As  of  a  falchion  that  is  quivering  thrown 
Under  the  rider  while  the  fight  goes  on, 
Or  like  the  heron's  heart,  in  contest  torn, 
Beneath  the  falcon's  wing  in  flight  upborne: 
Still,  at  the  morn,  the  watchman's  summoned  word 
Brought  no  news  other  than  the  eve  had  heard. 

o 

XLIV. 

"Within  the  wood,  my  Lady,  there's  no  stir; 
No  rider  bends  the  branch,  or  tramps  the  bur; 
No  dust  is  blown,  no  feathers  of  a  crest, 
Or  broidered  cuirass  of  a  warrior's  breast !" 
— Silent  she  listened,  silent — seemed  content; 
Then  slowly,  oft  not  noting  where  she  went, 
Musing  she  walked,  with  veil  and  shawl  wrapped 

close, 

Breathing  the  wan  mists  as  they  slowly  rose 
Mid  transient  shadows  of  soft,  heavy  bloom, 
That  made  her  faithful  thoughts  see  Roland's  plume : 
Albeit,  she  did  know,  engaging  thought 
Was  in  the  splendor  of  her  fancy  wrought: 
By  rippling  stream  and  beech- wood,  she  delayed, 
Until  the  evening  star  soft  splendor  made  : 
By  Nixa's  crystal  spring  and  fairy  grot 
She  passed  alone,  returning — fearing  not : 
The  light  or  shadow  hovering  on  the  grass, 
Might  be  the  sprite  of  Nixa — dared  she  pass  ? 
Those  childish  fancies  came  not  now,  alas  ! 
And,  0  ye  stars !  if  any  feet  have  trod 
Upon  ye — they  were  things  she  said  to  God. 


166  NONNENWERTH, 

XLV. 

*•  The  gloom  of  night  clings  to  the  morning  yet, 
Where  pearls  of  dawn  amid  the  shadows  met; 
So  I  remember,  though  he  may  forget ! 
Roland,  though   I  should  make   sweet  plaint   all 

night, 

I  could  not  tell  thee  all  the  wrong,  the  right, 
The  pain  of  loving  thee.  and  the  delight ! 
Though  I  should  break  my  heart  till  break  of  day, 
What  then  ?  what  more,  my  Lord  ?  what   shall   I 

say  ? 

This  is  as  it  should  be — and  was  alway  ! 
I  tell  thee  of  the  day,  not  in  thy  sight  1 
I  tell  thee  of  the  night,  when  it  is  night ! 
How  many  days  and  nights,  like  these,  take  flight: 
With  unclosed  lips,  I  breathe  faint  little  sighs, 
And  turn  so  still — the  wall  hath  no  replies  \ 
At  last  I  sleep  when  wakeful  feeling  dies !" 
— With  such  soft  supplication,  into  sleep 
She  passed  at  last — short  slumbers,  always  deep : 
With  heavy  faintness  of  what  pain  had  been, 
The  roseate  glow  not  on  her  pale  cheek  seen, 
Despite  of  all  prosaic  things  may  prove, 
She  dared  to  live,  and  sigh,  arid  die  for  Love. 

XLVI. 

He  had  not  come  that  day,  though  now  three  years 
Had  canceled  hope's  reserves,  and  gathered  fears: 
Sometimes  she  wept,  or  with  adjuring  thrill, 
Implored  to  weep — restraint  weeps  not  at  will:  ' 
Tears,  where  are  ye?    Down  in  the  deep  heart's  urn, 


A  LEGEND   OF  THE  KHINE.  167 

And  coming  singly  to  the  lids  that  burn 
With  strained  anguish.     Oh  !  ye  have  a  power — 
The  peace  of  a  resigned  and  tender  hour  ! 
No  Peri  ever  hailed  ye,  boon  of  earth  ! 
With  half  the  longing  your  forbidden  worth 
Comes  o'er  the  heart  whose  proud,  rebelling  eyes 
Would  send  ye  back,  all  hushed,  where  bleeding  lies 
A  carven  mouth  of  grief  beneath  its  wing — 
The  refuge  of  barbed  years — a  wounded  thing! 

XL  VII. 

He  had  not  come;  because  a  journey  then 
Meant  passing  like  a  dream, — returning,  when 
The  long  months  filled  to  years,  and  the  lone  seas 
Brought  dimly  back  the  sails  of  shattered  Peace. 
— She   feared,   but  dared  not   question  what  she 

feared : 

Betimes,  a  herald  from  the  King  appeared, 
And  news  from  Saxon  wars — but,  not  from  him 
For  whom,  her  cheek  so  paled,  and  eyes  grew  dim; 
Soldiers  and  pilgrims,  by  the  thousands,  went 
To  those  far  lands  where  he  had  pitched  his  tent : 
— She  knew,  alas,  that  hardly  half  returned 
More  surely,  fondly,  truly  her  heart  mourned: 
The  dust  and  lustre  of  wide  plains  at  noon, 
Made  lingering  rest  and  shade,  the  traveler's  boon; 
But  the  devoted  palmer's  cloak  and  stave, 
Might  find  his  journey's  end,  a  wayside  grave  ; 
For,  in  those  days,  the  plague,  contaminate, 
Gave  eastern  journeyers  a  hurried  fate: 
— Expectant  love  might  through  such  absence  wait, 


168  NONNE1NWEETH, 

While  long  the  hearts  desire,  so  supplicate, 
Could  only  answered  be,  with  "Oh,  too  late  I  " 

XL  VIII. 

There  is  a  mountain  shrine — St.  Roch's — where 

All  sylvan  grandeurs  mingle  with  sweet  prayer. 

The  beechwood's  verdure,  and  the  fount,  and  thoro 

Whose  near  white  blossoms  fall  on  breaths  of  morn; 

All  gay  luxuriance  whose  genial  breeze 

Goes  on  the  sunshine  to  the  distant  seas; 

The  sun's  pure  deeps  of  sapphire,  and  the  fold 

Of  lambs  all  gather'd,  ere  its  last  ray's  gold : 

— With  the  rose-folded  eyelids  of  sweet  tears, 

The  beautiful,  once  only,  of  the  years, — 

There,  in  the  midst  of  those  who  offered  vows? 

Knelt  Hildegarde  with  gently  shaded  brows, 

Over  her  pale  hands  bended  to  the  rail — 

Only,  as  yet,  her  golden  hair  their  veil : 

— Of  late,  she  whispered  secret  mournfud  things, 

Touched  with  redundance  of  love's  hidden  springs: 

"Lo  !  the  Lamb  lieth  on  the  altar's  stone, 

And  I,  O  God,  am  here  with  thee  alone ! 

Can  I  not  love  TJiee?  O  my  God,  above  I 

And  thus  forget  the  pain  of  human  love  ? 

But  no  :  the  thoughts  he  shares,    mine   anguish 

prove ! 

Sometime,  somewhere,  beyond  the  clearest  skies, 
I  hope  to  see  again  those  dear,  deep  eyes 
Look  on  me,  after  life's  or  death's  surprise  !  " 


A  LEGEND   OF   THE  KH1NE.  169 

XLIX. 

But  we  may  tell  when  she  had  waited  long, 
For  pilgrim's  tidings,  or  for  minstrel's  song  : 
— O'er  the  far  solitudes  subdued  and  vast, 
At  last  a  day  auspicious  seemed— at  last, 
A  day  !  it  may  be  as  an  almond  wand, 
Where,  with  sweet  surprise,  a  flower  is  found; 
Or,  like  Arabian  bee  that  from  a  rose 
Feeds — then  with  venom,  and  not  honey,  goes 
To  sting  to  madness,  on  the  Kamsin's  wind, 
"When  all  the  white,  hot  plains  make  gazing  blind: 
— The  long  untrodden  cliffs,  two  travelers  climbed, 
When  slow,  St.  Eoch's  bell  for  vespers  chimed — 
Their  quiet  converse  was  most  earnest  toned  ; 
Its  whispered  theme,  some  subtle  secret  owned. 

f          *  rMTTIJc  *       ^\ 


"You  watch  her,  and  sing  lays,  while  I  explain," 
This  said  the  younger,  "think  of  Acquitaine, 
And  let  no  pity  of  your  soul  arise 
For  wringing  hands  of  hers,  or  tearful  eyes  !" 
"I  know"  the  other  said,  "how  just  is  this  : 
But  how  malignant  too,  a  question  is  !" 
"I  am  exacting  as  the  king  Clovis"15 
— His  comrade  answered  with  a  careless  laugh — 
"Who  could  not  cut  the  Soissons'  vase  in  half, 
And  could  not  have  it  for  his  royal  share — 
To  give  it  back  for  good  St.  Remits  prayer  : 
But  when  his  soldier  struck  it  with  an  axe, 
To  make  it  subject  to  no  more  contest, 


170  NONNENWEETH, 

— The1  richest  thing  of  booty  in  the  sacks, 
Less  value  then  became  than  all  the  rest — 
Its  beauty,  to  a  battered  mass,  compressed: 
Clovis  said  naught  at  what  had  been  done  to  it, 
But  sent  it  back — the  prelate  scarcely  knew  it; 
But,  one  year  after,  levied  was  its  tax: 
The  soldier  in  some  dicipline  was  lax — 
1  'Your  shield  !  your  armor!  spotted  all  with  rust," 
The  king  roared,  as  he  threw  them  in  the  dust : 
"/ strike  as  you  struck Soissons'  vase  that  day! 
It  was  wrought  silver,  and  you  are  but  clay ! " 
One  blow  of  thefrancisgtue,  and  dead  he  lay. 

LI. 

With  careless  jest  and  such  light  anecdote, 
They  sauntered  till  they  reached  the  castle's  moat; 
But  this  much  of  their  talk  displayed  an  air 
Of  enterprise,  and  courage,  learning  rare — 
Not  always  found  in  pilgrims  given  to  prayer  : 
Each  shoulder  marked,  each  shell-medallioned  hat,16 
Donned  it,  the  pilgrim's  garb,  malice  like  that  ? 
Lo  !  in  each  eye,  a  fierce  and  dull  gray  light — • 
Where  sits  the  condor,  bird  of  haughty  flight, 
On  rugged  Andes,  beneath  Pampas  skies  — 
Such  is  the  spirit  that  such  glance  implies : 
Under  each  cloak  soft  flowing,  mailed  and  strong 
Lithe  limbs  ;  and,  like  the  Torso  studied  long, 
Carved  shoulders  of  fine  mould  and  massive  grace — 
These  the  dread  beauties  of  each  form  and  face  : 
The  gates  were  reached,  a  horn's  blast  sped  their  call, 
And  welcome,  tendered  by  the  Senechal. 


A   LEGEND  OF  THE   RHINE.  171 

LII. 

Effacing  trace  of  trembling,  hope  and  fear, 
With  glad  expectance; — what  may  she  now  hear  ? 
So  deemed  the  castle  maiden  as  with  haste, 
The  banquet  hall's  full  laden  board,  she  graced  : 
Then  eyes  of  furtive  guile  subdued  their  glance, 
Looked  down  with  semblance  mild  of  pious  trance, 
And  cautious  watchfulness  of  manner  some, 
Waiting  the  questions,  that  they  knew  would  come, 
With  answers  ready,  for  love's  queries,  traced  : 
Queen  Luidgarde,  the  lady  mother — all 
Gave  gracious  welcome  in  the  banquet  hall; 
And  servants  went  and  came  with  busy  call ; 
For  those  were  men  of  note,  it  was  assumed, 
Though  now  in  pilgrim  garb  not  knightly  plumed; 
The  Duke  Friuli  and  brave  Count  Gerold,17 
Whose  deeds,  with  Charlemagne,  were  true  and 

bold 

In  Hunnish  wars  of  doubtful,  hard  event : 
These  lies  were  told  with  grace  and  compliment, 
And  heard  with  courteous  faith,  all  confident. 

LIII. 

Festooned,  with  mountain  boughs  of  freshest  green, 
The  armor-laden  walls  were  brightly  hung; 
The  shining  rings  of  hauberks  gleamed  between, 
In  polished  splendor,  near  great  chandeliers 
Whose  lighted  waxen-tapers,  o'er  them  flung, 
A  softened  brilliancy  like  stars  or  tears — 
Though  nothing  added  to  ancestral  years, 
Whose  glorious  deeds,  the  bards  had  often  sung. 


172  NONNENWEETH, 

Of  brave  old  warriors  whose  steel -armor  now 
Rested  in  radiance,  under  lamp  and  bough. 
—The  daring  visitants  had  secret  fear  : 
For,  Issem  and  his  warders  were  outside  ; 
But  naught  of  recognition  did  appear, 
Or,  had  it — there,  at  once,  the  culprits,  died  : — 
Their  journey  short  to  a  deserving  tomb, — 
There  leaning,  half  concealed  in  the  warm  gloom 
Of  the  carved,  oaken  mantel  whose  great  hearth 
Threw  o'er  the  festal-board  its  genial  mirth. 

LIV. 

They  watched  the  ladies  waiting  on  the  queen, 

With  curious  eyes  of  interest — not  all  holy — 

And  inconsistent  with  the  melancholy. 

Most  usual  in  such  men  of  pilgrim  mien  : 

— There  sat  fair  Hildegarde  amidst  her  maidens; 

The  one  who  bore  the  water  for  her  hands, 

And  twined  her  gold  brown  hair    with  jeweled 

strands, 

Was  nearest,  chatting,  with  the  softest  cadence 
Of  gladness  and  sweet  hope  in  her  young  voice — 
They  now  might  hear  of  Roland,  and  rejoice  : 
"Ask  him,  dear  lady,  and  be  not  afraid  ! 
No  doubt,  he  knows  of  Roland,  why  delayed?" 
This  playful  importunity  obeyed, 
What  Hildegarde's  own  wish  had  not  essayed 
As  yet ;  but,  waiting  till  more  unobserved 
By  others — then,  her  purpose  strong,  she  nerved, 
With  shy,  sweet  smiles,  responsive  to  the  word 
Of  her  affectionate  and  faithful  friend, 


A  LEGEND   OF  THE  RHINE.  173 

Who  knew  that  Roland's  name  was  like  the  chord 
Where  the  deep  harmonies  in  music  blend. 

LV. 

One  of  the  pilgrims  sung  his  sweetest  lays, 
As  other  troubadours,  of  love  and  praise, 
That  came  from  Holy  Land  in  after  days: 
The  joyous  festival's  glad,  careless  glee 
Gave  chance  of  anxious  speech  to  Hildegarde; 
And  with  some  effort's  cost  of  dignity, 
Inclining  gentle  head,  and  smile's  award — 
Though  tremulous  a  little  at  the  heart — 
She  summoned  him  who  stood  in  gloom  apart, 
And  with  mild  courage  said  what  seemed  so  hard, 

LVI. 

uAnd  hast  thou  come  from  lauds,  0  pilgrim,  where 
The  lute,  and  lance,  and  corselet  fall  in  prayer  ? 
And  foremost  martyrs  fruitless  not  ?  while  low, 
Their  deep  atoning  hearts  in  torrents  flow? 
Is  the  dread  crescent  in  ascendance  yet  ? 
And  the  red,  desert  sun  in  triumph  set, 
Where  the  unaltered  cross  hath  lowered  stood 
The  share  of  sorrow,  and  the  price  of  blood  ? 
And  hast  thou  seen  him,  severed  long  from  me  ? 

0  faithful  journeyer,  by  land  and  sea  ! 

1  called  thee  pilgrim,"  here  her  grave  lips'  fold 
Parted  with  smiles, — "and  thou  art  Count  Gerold?" 
This  asking,  her  voice  fell  more  quietly, 

While  faintest  flush  of  rose  came  o'er  her  cheek  7 
And,  downward  looking,  she  then  ceased  to  speak. 


174  NONNENWEBTH, 

LVII. 

Adroitly,  he  evaded  her  last  tone 
Of  question,  as  to  what  name  he  did  own; 
None  could  discover  in  the  roseate  dun 
Of  his  cheek's  fine  mould— Abu  Taurus7  son: 
His  mother  was  a  Christian  girl,  most  fair, 
'  Of  the  Asturias'  mild,  and  balmy  air — 
For,  oft  the  rival  race  of  Omar,  there, 
Turned  into  lovers'  wooing — Moslem  prayer  : 
Or,  o'er  the  wild  stream  of  Abbassides, 
Were  shed,  rose  leaves  of  Christian  love  and 

peace : 

— Not  wanting  in  most  chivalrous  address 
This  Arab,  Frank,  did  equal  rights  possess ; 
So  that  our  Lupo,  as  his  preference  ran, 
Might  be  a  gallant  Christian  Frank  at  times, 
Or  a  descendant  of  Abderraman — 
His  whole  rights  are  not  stated  in  these  rhymes : 
But  his  own  tact  and  subtlety  adjusted 
The  role  that  just  then  he  had  to  enact ; 
And  Hildegarde  confidingly  entrusted, 
Hope,  credulous,  to  an  illiterate  fact — 
As  he  responded,  with  the  mildest  grace, 
Apparent  in  each  a'ct  of  form  and  face  : 

LVIII. 

"  Lady,  the  King's  knight,  Roland,  I  have  seen. 

Last — in  the  towers  of  Capitdline : 

We  two  oft  watched  at  night,  when  stars  grew 

pale, 
The  fire-flies  on  the  slopes  of  Arno's  vale  ; 


A  LEGEND    OF  THE  KHINE.  17 

And  listened  to  the  dulcet,  chirping  hums, 

Or  mystic  movements — strange  unceasing  thrums 

Of  the  Cicada,  in  the  barley-blooms  ; 

Where  the  dark  olive  and  the  bright  pale  vine, 

Luxuriant,  alternate,  intertwine. 

The  classic  mantles  of  Eomaic  tombs  ! 

Far  he  had  come,  his  valliant  mission  through, 

Successful  from  where  clouds  of  Syrian  blue, 

O'er  mount  and  plain  of  journey,  warmly  soar; 

When,  at  the  Tiber's  mouth,  a  rested  oar 

Brought  him  late  orders  for  a  lengthened  stay  : — 

Of  accusations  made  against  Leo — 

The  King  would  come  to  Rome,  the  cause  to  know; 

And  might  need  Roland's  aid  to  strongly  show 

Impartial  judgment  to  his  friend,  the  Pope  : 

"Who  vainly,  with  conspiracy,  did  cope  ! 

Stern  but  devoted,  was  the  calm  dismay 

Of  the  Knight,  Roland,  at  this  new  delay  ! " 

LIX. 

"I  know,"  she  whispered,  "and  a  holier  tie 

His  pain  and  peril  thus  doth  sanctify — 

To  live  for  me  as  for  his  honor  die  !" 

But  this  to  her  own  heart  whose  subdued  sigh 

Gave  little  outward  sign's  anxiety. 

"Stern  but  devoted,"  he  continued,  ''now 

Be  strong,  O  lady,  I  must  tell  thee  how 

Not  with  a  vanquished  Eagle  he  would  come 

Back  to  the  hamlets  of  his  mountain  home  !" 

"Be  strong  ?     Oh  yes:  for  I  have  chastened  well, 

Erewhile  my  heart's  surmises — thou  may'st  tell 


176  NONNENWEKTH, 

The  unfaltering  deed — if,  with  royal  right, 
He  died — then,  /  have  livsd,  as  infinite  !" 
uYea:  but  I  fear  the  words  that  may  appall 
Thee  into  dark  despair,  if  I  recall ! 
Against  Campulus  and  the  base  Paschal, 
His  active  part  was  but  disaster  all; 
And  good  Pope  Leo,  from  conspiring  strife, 
"Was  only  saved  at  cost  of  Roland's  life — 
Alas  !  thou  nearest  this,  his  promised  wife  !" 

LX. 

Let  not  repeatings  of  the  guileful  speech 
Through  all  her  anguish  its  whole  meanings  reach: 
There  was  a  quick  commotion — sudden  fright; 
And  joy ( turned  to  dismay — the  deathly  blight 
Of  consternation;  hushed  was  every  tongue; 
On  inquiry  expectant,  each  breath  hung 
For  a  few  moments  :  white  and  still  and  cold, 
She    had   swooned  in   deep    woe—  life's   chords 

unstrung : 

Cold  as  the  stream,  stricken  at  icy  fold, 
Of  some  great  avalanche  whose  thundering  swell, 
From  the  high  mount  into  the  valley,  fell , 
And  white  as  that  lost  wing  that,  at  the  gate 
Of  Heaven,  was  vanquished — ere  it  flew  to  Hell — 
After  whose  whiteness,    Death's   blackness  might 

wait — 

The  ensign-bearer  of  dread  Azrael  ! 
Dear  Hildegarde  had  heard  what  Lupo  told — 
Lupo,  the  crafty,  heartless  Lupo,  bold  : 
Oh,  not  in  vain  thy  Roland's  warning,  meant 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  KHINE.  177 

To  shield  thy  trustful  heart  so  innocent ! 

Alas,  alas  !  in  some  far,  fluttering  tent, 

Or  in  the  strife  of  some  contested  field, 

That  voice  of  warning  and  that  ''veiled  shield  !" 

LXI. 

i 
From  morn  till  midnight,  tolled  the  castle  bell ! 

From  midnight  until  morn,  its  muffled  knell 

Resounded  sad,  griefs  tidings  far  to  tell ! 

And  hollow  grew  the  softly  rounded  cheek; 

And  pallid  blue,  the  lips  that  did  not  speak 

For  many  a  weary  day  and  weary  week : 

— Her  constant  friend,  the  faithful  Luidgarde, 

The  king's  own  wife — all  majesty,  yet  meek — 

Watched,  by  the  bedside  of  her  tender  ward, 

Till — as  the  sunrise,  through  the  dawn's  dim  streak, 

Faintly  perceptible  at  last  appears — 

Life's  consciousness  came  back  with  reason's  tears, 

The  mild  safe  sea  that,  ships  of  sorrow,  bears 

Into  the  port  of  resignation — even 

When  storms  shroud  earth  and  sky — that   port  is 

heaven ! 

Tears,  tears  !  yea,  tears :  else  it  were  madness  then 
To  know  that  Roland  ne'er  would  come  again : 
"  I  fear  she'll  die  "  one  said  unto  the  other — 
The  friend  so  loving,  the  more  loving  mother — 
And  cautious  were  they,  that  no  word  was  said 
To  wake  the  pain  so 


12 


UNIVERSITY 
+>s/ 


178  NONNENWEETH, 

LXII. 

cents   at 


Though  not  all  truth  what  Lupo's  craft  did  say, 

Roland  was  at  Rome,  that  recorded  day  : 

The  shrines  were  robed,  for  it  was  blessed  May : 

In  all  the  bannered  streets,  the  populace 

Rode  in  dense  splendor;  'twas  a  day  of  grace: 

The  "  Greater  Litany's7'  sweet,  solemn  close, 

By  many  chorists  chanted,  grandly  rose ! 

Past  St.  Sylvester's  the  long  line,  and  past 

St.  Stephen's — chorists — banners — Leo  last: 

From  burning  censer,  floating  silver  cloud  ; 

The  knee  was  bent,  the  reverent  head  was  bowed; 

In  prayer  and  hymn,  was  Jesus'  holy  name : 

Then  the  chief  Pontiff  turned,  and  raised  his  hand — 

Tranquil  in  blessing  or  in  mild  command, 

Which,  was  never  known — through   the  line  there 

came, 

In  hurried  breaths  and  flashing  eyes  of  flame, 
Wild  cries  of  blood — a  panic  seizing  all ! 
Loud  voices  called,  Campulus  and  Paschal ! 18 

LXIII. 

These  very  men,  placed  nearest  to  the  side 

Of  Leo's  august  state,  who  yet  defied 

His  solemn  arid  just  right,  had — that  same  morn, 

Irrelevant,  concealing  plots  of  scorn, 

And  waiting,  chances  future  hours  might  own — 

Accepted  marks  of  signal  favor  shown, 


A    LEGEND   OF  THE  RHINE.  179 

And  with  such  friendly  tact,  and  consummate, 
That  Leo  still  suspected  not  his  fate; 
But,  in  that  moment  when  his  hand  was  lifted, 
And  that  such  call  of  voices  loudly  rose, — 
To  scattered  tumult  the  long  line  was  drifted; 
And  he,  at  once  encompassed  by  his  foes. 

LXIV. 

Turbulent,  traversing  each  open  space, 

Did  lances'  streamers  flash,  and  interlace ! 

Hatred  had  slumbered,  but  it  was  not  dead, 

On  unsuspecting  kindness  it  had  fed: 

Too  trusting  Leo !  Close — insatiate, 

Arose  the  deadly  cries, — "  Down  !  Mutilate!" 

— With  coward,trembling  hands — for  crime  is  fear, 

They  bore   him   prostrate:     "  Hold,  ye  dastards  ! 

Hear  i" 

Roland's  that  voice; — they  halt  to  hear  him  speak, 
The  glow  of  his  quick  wrath  hath  dyed   his  cheek! 
"  Ye  that  with  sacrilege  would  quench  the  light 
In  those  pale,  bleeding  brows,  defend  your  right  ! 
I  come,  conspirators !  Vengeful,  I  come  ! 
Say,  are  those  pallid  lips  forever  dumb  ? 
Those  mute,  mild  lips  that   called  you   Brothers, 

long  ? 
There  in  the  dust,  low  lying,  for  your  wrong  !" 

LXV, 

Scene  that  was  terrible  !  Men  desperate ! 

They  dared  not  stop,  sheathed  in  the  heart  of  hate; 

A  moment,  and  the  glimmering  dust  arose 


180  NONNENWERTH, 

With  ring  of  helmets  and  with  javelin  blows  : 
There  Eoland's  violet  mantle,  floating  high, 
Cleaved  a  free  pathway  where  the  foremost  die. 
''Match  ye  with  this,"  he  cried,   "your   plots  of 

harm  !" 

And  fast  and  true,  fell  his  descending  arm  ; 
As  tremor  of  faint  stars  o'er  fallen  snow, 
Shuddered  the  jeweled  helmet  on  his  brow, 
So  damp  with  ardor's  haste — so  pale  with  zeal, 
Appalling  triumph  ! — this  didst  thou  reveal. 

LXVI. 

The  almost  lifeless  Leo  then  was  borne 
To  St.  Erasmus; — all  the  night  till  morn, 
Each  gallant  enemy,  and  zealous  friend, 
"Watched,  holding  counsel, — life  and  death  impend, 
Though  he  should  be  a  prisoner,  if  his  life 
Were  spared  for  further  question  in  the  strife  : 
Meanwhile,  within  the  monastery,  were  found 
Adherents  whose  devotion  was  sincere — 
His  chamberlain,  Albinus,  closer  bound 
This  strong  co-operative  aid;  though  fear 
Imbued  his  every  movement,  not  untried 
He  left  each  means — and  enmity  defied  : . 
Down  from  the  walls,  in  safety  to  the  ground, 
They  lowered  Leo  at  the  dead  of  night, 
When  scarce  recovered  from  his  dangerous  wound,, 
— And  ere  his  enemies  perceived  his  flight : 
Before  three  days  had  passed,  the  King  had  come 
With  speed — encamping  near  the  walls  of  Kome; 
There  Eoland's  tendered  sword,  the  first  glad  gift, 


A  LEGEND   OF  THE  KHINE.  181 

That  charmed  his  smiling  eyes,  whose  upward  lift 
At  lighted  altars,  o'er  that  sword  austere, — 
Yea,  wept — in  hallowed  love,  in  pride  and  fear  ! 

LXVII. 


of  y[  cmuntceril|. 


Return,  where  never  changed,  the  mists  that  hung 
Moving  like  censers  that  are  softly  swung 
Upon  the  mountains,  or  like  robes  .and  feet 
That,  it  was  said,  are  beautiful  to  meet — 
Where  Hildegarde,  with  white  enfolded  hands 
That  on  her  lap  were  resting — and  blue  bands 
Of  silken  ribbon  on  her  tresses  shining, 
And  head,  upon  her  bosom,  half  inclining : 
Thinking  of  Roland  and,  perhaps,  repining — 
Traversed,  in  thought,  the  scenes  of  distant  lands : 
— Wholly  endowed  with  contemplation's  sense, 
She  felt  that  love  was  prayer  ;  in  her  soul's  deep, 
Prayer  and  holy  love  a  tryst  did  keep — 
A  rapt  resolve  of  some  new  thought  intense. 

LXVIII. 

Dark  was  her  soul;  but,  like  the  falcon's  flight,     • 
That  rises  startled  from  the  dews  of  night — 
Assuaging  fear  with  lofty  thoughts,  like  stars 
That  set  before  the  hour  of  dawn  unbars 
The  day  unto  the  night.     Rainbow  and  cloud ! 
In  all  life's  storms,  ye  are  not  disallowed  ! 
Though  hope  be  all  discrowned,  and  time  not  life, 
Within  the  haunted  breast,  ye  meet  the  strife  ! 


182  NONNENWEKTH, 

When  man's  heart  is  a  shoreless,  soundless  deep. 
What  floating  flowers  unfold  and  o'er  it  sweep, 
On,  tide  ward  to  the  cliffs  of  some  rock-tomb 
That  stirs  not  though  the  billows  toss  in  gloom, 
Glancing,  like  quickened  pain,  against  the  foam 
Whose  desolation  shines  beneath  thy  dome ! 
As  one  such  flower,  along  life's  tide  she  swept — 
Saddest  of  all  things  on  that  path  of  dread, 
— Against  the  billows'  strength,  vain  conflict  kept; 
For,  still  a  thousand  tears  her  dear  eyes  wept, 
And  low  unlifted  her  love-mourning  head  : 
Still  where  was  thrown  the  shadow  of  the  past, 
Her  heart  reached  high  a  flame-enwreathed  mast, 
Whose  sails  were  burning  and  whose  bays  seemed 

fire, 

— The  sight  of  shore  to  the  wrecked  hope's  desire. 
Proverbial  love ! — thou  'rt  known  by  many  names; 
But  thou  didst  come  to  her,  with  these  thy  claims, 
In  dreamlike  harmony  that  had  become, 
Her  full  heart's  patience,  as  with  laden  hum, 
On  slumbrous  summer-winds,  the  voyager 
Starts  from  the  troubled  rose,  with  wings  astir. 

LXIX. 

''Thy  place  of  sanctity,  0  Nonnenwerth  I 
Is  now  the  chosen,  peaceful  spot  on  earth 
Where  I  can  bear  to  live,"  she  musing  said  : 
U0h,  I  shall  bind  my  brows,  as  one  lain  dead. 
Where  thy  majestic  bells,  at  eventide, 
Along  the  waters  of  the  pure  lake  glide ! 
Roland  !  Roland  !  thy  chimes  will  seem  to  call, 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  EHINE.  183 

— Sentence  and  prophecy,  I  will  understand ! 
Roland  !  Roland !  answering  not  at  all — 
From  o'er  the  sea  nor  o'er  the  mountain  land ! 
But,  like  the  watched  dove,  I  will  lift  my  thought, 
Far  out  of  sad  realms  that  on  earth  are  sought ! 
Eternal  purpose  !  serene  to  be  fulfilled, 
Forever  irrevocable,  strongly  willed, 
Nothing  to  expiate — sacrifice  alone — 
Love's  truest  offering  when  its  will  is  done  !*' 

LXX. 

And  here  love's  pain  and  tenderness,  once  more, 
The  balmy  murmur  of  deep  grief,  did  pour; 
And  well  it  was;  for,  as  by  Euphrates, 
They  sat  and  sighed  for  days  forever  flown — 
Patience  rose  softly  on  the  plumes  of  peace, 
"With  songs  of  the  true  heart's  harmonious  moan, 
— The  sorrow  bravely  borne,  this  sign,  shall  own : 
"Let  not  the  Lyre  sleep/'  unto  them  was  said  ; — 
They  answered,  looking  up  with  eyes  that  plead, 
*'0h  yes  !   unto  our  sorrow,  we  shall  sing ! 
There  is,  perhaps,  some  drop,  ye  did  not  bring, 
That  had  made  overfull  our  misery, 
And  given  to  mourners  the  sad  right  to  die  !" 
How  great,  then,  is  the  grief  that  doth  deny 
The  last,  blest  peace  of  death — the  final  sigh  : 
This  death  in  life  was  hers — like  the  Sybil, 
— To  live  and  to  remember  fondly  still : 
Such  song  of  consolation,  such  unrest — 
Inheritance — forever,  in  her  breast. 


184  NONNENWERTH, 

LXXI. 

"The  sentence  I  have  loved — alas,  alas  1 
What  end  of  anything  shall  come  to  pass  ? 
What  bloom,  what  blossom  dieth  as  the  grass  ? 
Beneath  my  feet  are  those  things — now,  my  love 
Doth  lead  my  heart,  and  lift  my  eyes  above  I 
But  oft  I  know  my  thoughts  will  darkly  brood, 
Like  shadows  in  the  cedars  of  the  wood, 
Thy  soul  within  them,  Roland  !  and  thy  name 
Within  them,  ashes  left  when  quenched  the  flameL 
There  shalt  thou  walk  upon  the  slumbrous  sea, 
Thy  power  through  darkness  still  sustaining  me — 
The  storm — the  waves— the  night  of  Galilee  ! 
It  shall  be  known — the  darkness,  fear,  and  pain- 
Known  that  I  watched  for  thee  across  the  maina 
And  that  my  head  upon  thy  feet  hath  lain  ! 
Dark  are  the  Olives  now,  my  love  and  lord  ! 
And  near  my  lips,  the  chalice  and  the  word 
That  Jesus  uttered  when  the  angel  heard  I 
Dark  are  the  Olives,  and  I  too  afraid, 
As  when  the  chalice  to  his  lips  was  laid  ; 
And  I  too,  list  to  what  the  angel  said  ! 
I  list  to  what  the  angel  said — for  thou 
Mayst  no  word  say  to  me !     Roland,  no  sign 
From  thee !  I  lie,  as  one  at  day's  decline 
May  lie,  in  shadow  of  grief's  mountain  brow ! 
Many  a  watch,  like  last  night's  watch,  I'll  keep 
When  the  soft  seals  do  not  fall  into  sleep, 
While  lying — dying— loving  thee — I'll -weep  ! 
— Angel  of  record !  take  some  note  of  this ! 
Come  down  to  me,  through'darkness,  with  the  kiss 


'  All  the  dreamy  day  in  cymar  of  gold, 
The  Lurly  maiden  sits  where  cliffs  are  cold ; 
Swiftly  her  white  hands  in  the  sunset  shine, 
With  gleaming  golden  comb  and  tresses  fine." 

Page  149.— Stanza  XIX. 


A  LEGEND    OF  THE  RHINE.  185 

In  dreams,  somehow,  of  his  sweet  passion's  bliss ! 

Or  bear  me  through  the  realms  of  earth  and  air, 

Unconscious  of  my  waking  woe's  despair, 

And  lay  me  in  his  sleeping  bosom  fair — 

There  would  I  be  with  him  at  rest,  somewhere ! 

— Impenetrable  God  !  what  do  I  say  ? 

My  life  to  thee — one  consecrated  day  ! 

Feeling  and  thought  of  mine,  Thy  will  shall  sway  !:? 

LXXII. 

The  basement,  Gothic  arches,  and  facade 

Of  Nonnenwerth  to-day  are  not  much  changed, 

Although  in  dreadful  wars,  'twas  often  made 

The  scene  where  ruthless  footsteps  careless  ranged, 

— It  served  as  a  hotel  or  hospital : 

The  sanctity  of  custom  might  recall 

In  vain  old  usage — or  its  shelter  fall 

Upon  the  soldier  doomed  to  couch  and  pall  ; 

And  we  may  thus  suppose  that  many  a  scar, 

Together  with  the  ravages  of  time, 

Hath  marked  its  walls,  in  peace  as  well  as  war, 

— A  renovated  ruin — old — sublime  ! 

In  that  past,  ancient  day,  'twas  thus  arrayed  : 

Within  the  chapel,  richly  overlaid 

And  gilded  the  high  altar's  balustrade  : 

The  painted  ceiling  and  sacristy  door, 

With  decorative  art,  all  covered  o7er  : 

Bright  leaves  and  cornices — no  open  space 

Not  covered  by  the  frescos  of  the  walls : 

Sts.  Peter  and  Lorenzo — each  saint's  face 

A  work  of  art  by  some  hand  o'er  which  falls 


186  NONNENWERTH, 

The  veil  of  nameless  time — though  sometimes  fair, 

Those  frescos  old  are  valued  more  as  rare 

Old  relics  of  the  early  Christian  art — 

Such  as  St.  John,  St.  Paul,  the  Sacred  Heart — 

Before  the  Renaissance  did  softly  part  « 

The  folds  of  drapery  that  hid  the  morn 

Of  splendor,  that  its  birth  came  to  adorn. 

LXXIII. 

Many  of  those  old  pictures  were  on  plate 

Of  gold  and  silver — all  backgrounds  of  gilt — 

Though  sometimes  upon  wood,  with  frames  ornate 

Of  silver,  set  with  jewels,  as  though  spilt 

In  rich  confusion;  on  the  frame's  bright  marge, 

Were  precious  stones  of  all  kinds — often  large: 

Those  paintings,  mostly  Greek,  and  whether  wood 

Or  plate,  the  outlines  always  hard  and  rude, 

— In  size  not  larger  than  a  foot  or  two — 

Said  to  be  painted  by  St.  Luke — if  true, 

They  were  entitled  to  their  dingy  hue: 

But  some  old  frescos  were  of  size  immense, 

And  quite  appalling  to  the  startled  sense : 

The  artists,  evidently,  used  more  skill 

To  portray  satan's  power  of  evil  will, 

Than  to  exemplify  the  angels — all 

The  latter  were  left  out,  or  made  quite  small. 

LXXIV. 

But  the  chief  devil,  always  very  big, 
Was  made  the  hero  of  the  awful  scene, 
Gnawing  sinners,  and  caring  not  a  fig 


A  LEGEND    OF  THE  RHINE.  187 

While  he  devoured  them,  whether  fat  or  lean : 
His  teeth  were  marvellously  long — his  mouth 
Would  serve  a  "  carpet-bagger"  going  South, 
Its  powers  of  capacity  so  great ; 
But  judging  the  expression  on  his  face, 
He  did  not  relish  much  the  food  he  ate, 
—No  doubt,  disgusted  with  the  sinful  race — 
Though  sternly,  he  fulfilled  each  victim's  fate, 
While  standing  to  his  middle  in  a  pool 
Made  red  to  simulate  the  fiercest  fire : 
Alas  !    Beholding  this,  is  man  a  fool 
To  give  his  heart  up  to  each  base  desire  ? 
No  wonder,  the  old  Saints'  ascetic  rule 
Made  them  be  painted,  on  the  wall,  up  higher, 
—  A  row  of  holy  men,  upon  a  bench, 
To  which  no  imp  or  devil  could  aspire — 
And,  on  the  burning  lake  that  naught  could  quench, 
They  looked,  in  grave  solemnity,  as  though, 
Were  it  not  for  the  honor  of  the  thing, 
They'd  rather  be  disporting  there  below, 
Where  many  little  sinners,  wild  did  fling 
Themselves  about  in  various  attitudes : 
An  angel,  at  one  side,  carefully  weighed 
A  few  good-sized  ones,  in  a  pair  of  scales. 
— Appearing  sad  in  judgment,  and  dismayed 
At  how  preponderance  of  sin  prevails — 
These  were  presented,  in  the  interludes 
Of  Satan's  feasting,  as  the  last  new  goods. 

LXXV. 

The  fresco,  as  described,  herein  above, 
Was  painted,  under  a  descending  dove, 


188  NONNENWEETH, 

In  Nonnenwerth's  large  porch,  so  high  and  wide — 
It  nearly  covered  all  the  space,  one  side: 
'Twas  given  the  convent  by  Costanz  Cloro 
Whose  wife  became  a  convert  first,  then  he, 
— They  lived  before  Van  Rhyn  or  Da  Vinci; 
And  'twas  not  painted  by  Fiamingo, 
Or  even  Cimabue,  or  Albert  Durer, 
— For  they  lived  after,  though  so  long  ago — 
Its* gifted  artist's  name,  no  records  show, 
And  speculation  cannot  make  us  surer, — 
Nor  could  it,  then,  have  been  by  Tintoretto  : 
Such  awful  names  have  all  this  artist  set — oh, 
It  would  distract  one,  the  whole  list,  to  tell — 
— Tibaldi,  Vasari  and  Raffaelle— 
I  might  continue,  and  their  number  swell — 
But  since  I  name  not  this  one,  let  them  go — 
His  name's  the  one  I  don't  exactly  know. 

LXXVI. 

The  convent  was  not  always  Ursuline — 

Brendaine,  perhaps — if  not,  Benedettine; 

The  early  annalists  only  combine, 

To  give  accounts  distinct  and  separate — 

Its  orders  had,  each  one,  unequal  date: 

But,  in  those  days,  the  nuns  wore  cloth  of  fine 

White  texture,  as  a  flowing  tunic  made 

In  manner  as  a  sash — the  head  overlaid 

With  a  Greek  band  of  modest  ornament : 

O'er  Longobardo  books  of  ritual, 

At  prayer  and  service,  their  mild  eyes  were  bent ; 

And  all  were  ladies  of  the  noblest  birth 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  RHINE.  189 

Who  were  admitted  nuns  at  Nonnenwerth : 

The  long  sleeves  of  the  robes  were  made  to  fall, 

A  covering  to  soft  bands  of  fairest  grace; 

And  the  Greek  band,  or  forehead's  broidered  pall, 

Was  palely  beautiful  above  each  face : 

— If  one  should  go  at  noon  or  eventide 

To  sit  within  the  chapel — there  beside 

The  coro  railings — white,  as  if  they  died, 

And  there  were  statuesque  and  kneeling  stitt, 

— The  silence  broken  only  by  the  thrill 

Of  the  sweet  chant,  half  prayer,  half  hymn,  they 

made — 

Some  of  them  always  in  that  sacred  place, 
Though  all  the  church  besides  were  empty  space, 
Or  nearly  so  :    perceiving  this,  afraid,  t 

Almost,  would  be  beholders,  at  the  scene 
So  purely  passive,  pallid,  and  serene — 
Those  kneeling  nuns,  behind  the  coro's  screen. 

LXXVII. 

Among  them  there  was  one  who  was  yet  young, 
Of  all  the  coro  nuns,  she  sweetest  sung; 
And  oft  sent  messages  to  Hildegarde, 
After  the  service,  through  the  coro  barred : 
They  had  been  fond  companions  in  the  days 

Of  childhood's  happy  studies  and  glad  plays; 
And  Angiola,  this  was  her  sweet  name, 
Grieved  for  the  grief  that  on  her  fair  friend  came : 
uBe  one  of  us,"  she  said,  "and  bear  thy  loss  ! 
They  too  shall  wear   the  crown  who  wear  the 
cross !  " 


190  NONNENWEBTH, 

It  needed  little  of  such  influence — 
Already  had  the  world-resigning  sense 
Come  over  Hildegarde  conclusively — 
The  place,  its  custom,  and  its  novelty, 
Claimed  her  attention — which  she  went  to  see  • 
Walking  the  corriders  beside  her  friend — 
The  other  nuns,  that  met  them,  light  did  bend 
Each  gentle  head  with  smiles  of  mild  salute 
And  welcome,  low-voiced  as  a  Dorian  flute. 

LXXVIII. 

While  pleased  with  all  she  saw,  through  spacious 

halls, 

Refectory,  and  Dormitorio, 
Th£  church,  the  gardens — till  the  sunset  glow 
Sank  o'er  the  willow  marge,  and  o'er  the  flow 
Of  river-tide — these  earnest  friends  did  go  : 
— After  the  entrance,  a  commodious  stair 
Led  to  the  topmost  chambers,  and  the  tower 
Whose  spire  reached  upward  through  ethereal  air, 
O'er  grounds  of  willow  bloom,  and  garden  flower, 
And  clear,   bright   windows,  that  looked   on  the 

Rhine, 

Whose  distant,  trellised  hillsides  of  pale  green 
Nurtured  the  amethystic  jeweled  vine, 
While  the  blue  winding  river  flowed  between, 
Dimly  far  onward — beautifully  grand ! 
The  Rhine,  the  Rhine  of  that  fair  mountain  land  ! 
Here  might  she  dwell  henceforth  in  blissful  peace, 
Apart  from  life,  to  give  time's  woe  surcease  ; 
And  then  she  named  a  certain  day  of  choice, 


A  LEGEND   OF  THE  KHINE.  191 

When  she  would,  soon  return,  all  this  to  share  : 
Her  resolution  made  the  nuns  rejoice — 
The  beat  of  the  simandro  called  to  prayer — 
Her  visit  she  delayed,  to  join  them  there. 

LXXIX. 

Soon  after,  she  returned  to   Ehrenfels, 

To  make  avowal  of  her  new  intent  : 

That  day  a  message  to  the  castle  sent, 

With  kingly  retinue  and  herald  bells, 

Informed  the  queen — his  majesty  the  king 

Would  wait  for  her,  at  Tours,  that  they  would 

bring 

Her  court  and  ladies,  while  he  waited  there  : 
— At  this  time  Luidgarde  would  go  to  Tours, 
To  seek  some  blessed  waters7  shrine  of  cure; 
The  dread  disease  that,  after  caused  her  death, 
Was  then  oppressing  her — with  faint,  quick  breath. 
She  welcomed  Hildegarde's  return,  and  then, 
With  courteous  care,  disposed  the  kingly  men 
To  banquet;  and,  preparing  to  depart, 
She  pressed  her  friend,  in  fervor,  to  her  heart: 
— "Lord  give  thee  peace,  my   dear/'    she  said? 

"I  go; 

With  me  life  seems  to  fade;  and  yet,  on  me, 

The  fondest  kingly  love,  its  joys  bestow — 

See  how  life's  strange  allotments  seem  to  be  ! 

Abide  then  in  God's  will,  we  cannot  see 

What  may  be  best  for  us — what  is  grief's  right  ? 

One  flower  struck  at  the  root,  one  left  to  bloom, 


192  NONNENWERTH, 

Must  each  have  after-part  of  equal  blight, 

And  may  have  bloomed  and  blossomed  on  a  tomb  !  " 

LXXX. 

And  then  they  spoke  of  many  other  things — 

Their  friendship  was  like  Iris7  rainbow  wings, 

Or  like  the  shield  of  Pallas,  tried  and  true, 

The  sympathies  so  varied  of  these  two, 

And  yet  into  one  bow  so  lightly  hung ; 

For  gentle  Luidgarde  was  also  young, 

And  very  dear  unto  her  kingly  lord — • 

This,  tenderly  expressed  his  message  word — 

At  that  same  hour,  his  heart  with  woe  was  wrung, 

In  fear  of  the  impending  loss  of  her, 

And  he  had  called  physicians  to  confer 

About  her  state  of  health.     She  now  proposed 

That  both  the  ladies  go  with  her  to  Tours, 

In  order,  that  no  circumstance  abjure 

Their  bond  of  sweet  companionship — disclosed 

Must  be  the  plan  of  Hildegarde,  so  late, 

Made  the  intention  of  her  future  fate. 

LXXXI. 

That  moment,  Lady  Heligoland  came 
Into  the  queen's  apartment — she,  the  same 
Mentioned  as  mother  of  our  heroine, 
And  eldest  sister  of  the  lovely  queen  : 
— "  I  will  go  with  you,  dear,  she  kindly  said, 
And  preparation  shall  at  once  be  made !  " 
Then,  turning  to  her  daughter,  she  perceived 
That  with  some  hesitating  thought,  she  grieved : 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  KHINE.  193 

— "  Dear  mother,  loneliness  will  be,  'tis  true, 

As  though  thy  rose  of  love,  bereft  of  dew, 

Missed,  for  the  time,  the  sunshine  that  it  knew!  " 

Then  on  her  mother's  bosom  she  did  lean — 

"If  I  go  not  with  thee  and  with  the  queen, 

I  can  have  favored  time  to  try  the  vow 

In  the  white  veil  " — here  bending  her  head  low — 

"I  wish  to  go  to  Nonnenwerth,  you  know  !  " 

— "My  dear,  as  you  decide,  it  shall  be  so, 

And  with  my  blessing,  I  will  let  thee  go ! 

Yet.  dear,  with  some  reluctance,  this  I  say — 

I  will  try  not  to  miss  thee  while  away : 

My  journey  with  the  queen  will  then  be  good, 

Since  I  will  not  be  here  in  solitude  !  " 

LXXXII. 

Days  passed,  and,  in  one  short  week  from  that  day, 

Where  shadows  darkled  from  the  sun's  bright  ray, 

There  was  a  festa  in  the  forest  trees, 

A  festa  of  farewell  by  Hildegarde : 

The  village  maidens  gathered  all  around; 

And  after  morn's  and  noon's  festivities, 

She  took  them  to  the  castle  court,  or  yard, 

And  dropping  from  the  windows  to  the  ground 

Her  silken  robes  and  laces — did  award 

To  each  and  all  of  them,  some  present  fair — 

Dividing  equally,  each  share  and  share : 

Pleased,  they  received  them,  but  less  pleased  the 

word 

That  they  received  with  them  of  sad  farewell — 
Some  little  sobs  and  tears  there  softly  fell: 
*13 


194  ;NONNENWERTH, 

Each  one,  in  turn,  came  near  and  kissed  her  cheek, 
While  with  full  heart  she  stood,  and  did  not  speak  : 
These  were  the  maidens  that  with  roundelay, 
When  Roland  was  a  boy — she,  queen  of  May — 
At  the  rosalia,  laid  the  garland-rose 
Upon  her  girlish  brow's  pure,  bright  repose, 

LXXXIII. 

The  next  morn,  all  three  ladies  would  take  leave 
Of  Ehrenfels,  though  parting's  last  reprieve 
With  Hildegarde  might  be  deferred  a  day — 
They  would,  at  Nonnenwerth,  make  some  delay, 
Attending  while  bestowed  was  her  white  veil — 
By  route  of  journey  it  was  on  their  way, 
A  journey  beautiful  o'er  hill  and  dale. 
The  knights  of  escort  waited  in  the  glade, 
With  varied  plumes  and  sashes,  bright  arrayed, 
And  pages  held  the  stirrups,  while  they  mounted  j 
— They  rode  on  horses,  in  a  cavalcade, 
— Fifty  knights-at-arms,  in  all,  when  counted: 
But  when  the  drawbridge  fell,  and  Hildegarde 
Lingering  the  last  one,  ere  she  passed  beyond, 
With  foot  upon  the  stirrup,  thought  how  hard 
To  part  with  childhood's  things,  associate,  fond, 
She  stopped  to  give  them  one,  last,  farewell  glance, 
And  bear  them  still  onward  in  remembrance. 

LXXXIV. 

Her  bower-window,  whose  Eolian  chord 
To  the  spring  zephyr  made  responsive  thrill, 
The  woodland  park,  the  stream  and  rocky  ford, 


A  LEGEND   OF  THE   RHINE.  195 

The  softness  of  the  sunrise  on  the  hill, 

And  the  low  murmur  of  the  distant  mill : 

— Absorbed  she  gazed ,  when  sudden,  the  old  ward, 

With  hand  upon  the  bridle  rein,  stood  near 

In  deprecating  tenderness — half  fear : 

— li  My  Lady,  have  I  looked  so  long  in  vain, 

That  thou  wilt  never  view  these  towers  again, 

That  were   my  posts  of  watch '? "     As   the  tide 

strands 

Eeluctaut  yield  their  bright  waves  to  the  sea, 
He  seemed  overwhelmed  with  his  strong  agony; 
Kneeling,  he  clasped  her  robe,  between  his  hands, 
Tightly,  and  to  his  lips  he  lifted  it: — 
"  In  my  old  age,  so  desolate,  I'll  sit 
To  see  thy  face  no  more — thy  face  no  more ! " 
At  thought  of  this,  convulsive  bending  o'er 
The  hands  he  pressed,  restrainless  grew  his  woe, 
As  the  red  star  of  tempest  on  the  flow 
Of  midnight  waters  in  the  gloom  below  : 
As  he  had  watched  for  her  o'er  mountain  lands, 
Her  wishes,  to  affection,  were  commands ; 
Oft  he  had  borne  her  o'er  the  torrent  sands, 
To  keep  her  delicate,  small  feet  from  damp; 
And  when  she  was  afraid,  as  children  are 
When  twilight  lades,  and  rises  the  night-star, 
'Twas  always  Issem  that  had  borne  the  lamp. 

LXXXV. 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  aged  head, 

"  Weep  not,  O  Issem,"  she  then  sadly  said : 

"  I  go  where  in  the  choir's  sweet  melodies, 


196  NONNENWERTH, 

Thy  lute  songs  of  old  time  will  softly  rise ! 
Issem,  I  too,  feel  quiver  in  mine  eyes, 
The  tears  of  kind  remembrance,  and  now  there 
I  see  myself  a  child  with  clustering  hair, 
The  spring's  breath  free  upon  a  sunny  brow, 
And  mildly,  as  I  bless  thine  aged  one  now ! 
Thy  hand  light  as  a  fawn's  foot,  e'er  to  mark 
The  opening  flower,  the  path  of  upward  lark — 
These  things  shall  still  go  with  me  to  a  shrine 
Of  undimmed  beauty,  as  devout  as  thine  ! '' 
Then  covering  her  eyes,  she  said  no  more ; 
But  hastening,  joined  those  who  had  gone  before. 

LXXXVI. 

Departing,  all  were  on  the  journey  then — 
Along  the  river  side,  by  rock  and  glen, 
Till  reaching  Nonnenwerth,  they  had  such  rest 
As  glad  reception  gave  the  welcome  guest — 
The  escort-knights  and  queenly  court  were  made 
Encampments  in  the  ground  of  willow  shade, 
Finding  not  room  for  all  within  the  walls : 
— The  chapel,  hung  with  ivy  coronals, 
All  was  made  ready  for  the  lofty  theme 
Of  praise  and  sacrifice — the  altar's  gleam 
Burned  with  soft  luster — the  attending  train 
Of  sweet-voiced  nuns  upraised  a  soft  refrain, 
And  friends  were  gathered,  and  a  solemn  Mass 
Was  chanted,  while  in  order  they  did  pass 
Around  the  rail  to  gather  at  her  side, 
When  she  avowed  herself  the  white  Christ-bride, 
That  mystic  hour  accepted  and  denied : — 


A  JLEGEND  OF  THE   SHINE.  197 

Her  hair  was  garlanded — each  separate  tress 
Of  seven  tresses,  touched  upon  the  end 
With  melted  wax :  a  box,  that  held  the  dress 
Of  white,    was  brought — then   kneeling,   she  did 

bend, 

The  robe  was  given  to  the  priest  to  bless — 
The  abbess  cut  the  tresses,  one  by  one, 
And  placed  the  white  veil  on  her — all  was  done. 

LXXXVII. 

After,  the  glad  acclaims  of  welcome  made, 

The  day  was  passed  with  the  rejoicing  guests; 

And  all  the  other  nuns,  vicing,  essayed 

To  show  the  rose-bloom  of  the  soul,  that  resti 

Longest  upon  religious  eminence ; 

Imagination  that  becomes  intense, 

And  finer,  the  perception* of  each  sense — 

The  violent  contrasts  of  solitude: 

— The  mind,  reliant  on  itself,  imbued 

With  efforts,  purposes — all  vainly  strewed 

Beside  the  green  shore  and  the  current's  lave, 

Mid  roses  wild  that  grew  upon  a  grave, 

Accepts  what  hope  presents,  and  calls  it  good, 

Because,  but  partially,  'tis  understood — 

For,  knowing  things  too  well,  we  are  not  pleased, 

Nothing  on  earth  will  satisfy  the  heart  j 

Here  is  the  secret  of  the  thought  released, 

To  seek,  beyond  the  earth,  the  better  part. 

LXXXVIII. 

There  was  one  thing  that  happened  very  strange, 
— Just  at  the  moment  when  she  bowed  her  head, 


198  NONNENWEETH, 

And  that  bestowal  of  the  veil  was  made, 
The  abbess  then  reached  forward  to  exchange, 
With  Hildegarde,  the  taper  that  she  held — 
When  lo!    as  though    by    unseen    hands,    'twas 

felled— 

It  dropped  and  quenched,  its  swiftly  passing  flame 
Catching  her  veil  a  moment — quickly  red 
Her  lambent  cheek,  as  the  bright  flame  that  fled, 
And  soon,  as  whitely  paled,  as  one  just  dead: 
— Newly  asleep  that  night  in  a  strange  place, 
Her  dreams  were  troubled —  one  familiar  face 
Haunted  her  memory,  and  she  waked,  and  heard 
A  low,  soft  bell  that  on  the  midnight  stirred  5 
Then,  waking  her  companion  from  repose, 
She  asked  the  meaning  of  the  deepening  tone- — 
Who,  trembling  as  in  fear,  or  one  alone, 
Crossing  herself,  proceeded  to  disclose 
To  Hildegarde  the  meaning  of  the  bell. 
— "  San  Benedetto,  sister  dear,  would  tell 
How  pleased  he  is  upon  the  choice  you've  made !  * 
And  yet,  she  shuddered  still  as  one  afraid — 
There  was  a  custom  of  the  olden  time, 
San  Benedetto  tolled  a  midnight  chime 
Of  deep,  unearthly  sweetness,  whene'er  one 
Was  added  to  the  convent — a  white  nun : 
This  was  to  tell  her  that  his  great  desire 
Was  her  continuance  of  purpose  high — 
From  the  first  trial,  that  she  still  aspire, 
And  lift  her  hopes,  to  Immortality. 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  RHINE.  199 

LXXXIX. 

Thus  letting  her  fond  heart  fold  in  its  blight — 
Ah  me  !  the  fleeting  months  whose  veil  was  white, 
Testing  the  soul  that  might  not  choose  aright : 
What  sorrow  had  she  missed  ? — What  destiny  ? 
The  prayers  of  yielding  hopes'  surrendered  will, 
Xo  tender,  last  reprieve  did  them  delight — 
The  changeful  future,  who  can  e'er  foresee : 
Hushed,  every  strong  unrest's  repining  thrill, 
Only  the  curving  lines  grew  quivering  deep, 
Where  citadels  of  feeling  softly  sleep, 
On    the   lip's    pure    rose  —  the    brow's  Madonna 

grace — 

With  all  that  heaven  may  seek,  and  earth  efface. 
A  year's  novitiate  of  such  peaceful  balm, 
The  past  now  dead  to  her — the  future  blank — 
The  final  vows,  could  they  bring  deeper  calm? 
Or,  were  they  like  a  towering  cloud's  dark  bank  ? 

xc. 

When  formed  a  purpose,  we  may  never  know 

What  may  the  sequel  of  its  future  show: 

— As  the  deep  "  Cherr!  Gherr!"  of  the  honey-guide 

That  leads  to  shadows  of  the  mountain  side, 

Where,  following,  is  found  the  bees'  full  comb 

If  still  unwearied  will  the  hunter  roam: 

But,  for  all  that  O  wanderer,  beware  ! 

The  honey-guide  may,  with  the  self-same  care, 

Lead  those  who  follow  into  bush  or  snare, 

The  sleeping  tiger's,  or  the  lion's  lair, 


200  NONNENWEKTH, 

Or  to  the  under-growth  whose  cobra  hides, 

And  where  the  stealthy  panther's  footstep  glides : 

The  day  came  of  the  last  decisive  lt  yes," 

"  What  is  thy  purpose  ?  n  asked  those  whom  she 

met, 

"  Or  hath  the  year  brought  unto  thee  regret  ?  " 
She  shook  her  head  and  smiled :  they  answered, 

"  Bless 

Thee,  sister  dear !  and  may  thy  hopes  be  true, 
And  sweet  as  precious  frankincense  whose  dew 
The  desert  sands  have  gathered  through  the  night, 
And  yet,  behold !  it  bloorneth  at  the  light, 
And  in  the  blazing  heat  of  the  noon-tide, 
It  does  not  perish ,  trampling  hoofs  shed  wide 
Its  soft,  rich  perfume  on  the  desert  air, 
Imperishable  ever,  it  is  there. 

xoi. 

Again  the  church  was  filled ;  invited  guests 
Crowded  the  portico ;  and  rich  bequests 
Were  given ;    and  the  grand,  pontifical, 
High  Mass  was  chanted  by  a  cardinal: 
A  sheet  of  parchment,  with  gilt  arabesque, 
The  oath  of  formula,  lay  on  the  desk; 
And  on  the  floor  was  a  black  carpet,  spread — 
Prostrate  upon  it,  on  her  face  she  lay : 
A  funeral-cloth  thrown  o'er  from  foot  to  head, 
Upon  it  neither  flower  nor  fragrant  spray, 
But  in  the  center  was,  embroidered  white, 
A  human  skull,  betwen  the  torches'  light 
That  burned  at  the  four  corners;  while  a  bell, 


A  LEGEND  THE   RHINE.  201 

With  muffled  cadence  on  the  wind's  deep  swell 
Was  tolled,  the  cardinal  her  thus  conjured 
With  hope  immortal,  beyond  earth,  assured : 
<c  0  thou  who  sleepest  in  cold  death,  awake ! 
God  will  enlighten  thee,  for  his  own  sake!  " 

XCII. 

At  the  first  invocation,  the  nuns  drew 

The  black  cloth  off;  and,  at  the  second,  she 

Arose  upon  the  carpet,  on  one  knee : 

Again  one  light  went  out — a  sharp  wind  blew 

Into  a  doorway  opened—  some,  that  knew 

The  cause  of  her  resolve,  made  strange  remark, 

How  omen- like  it  was,  the  taper  dark 

A  second  time — "  Come  back,  appear,  reply," 

It  surely  asked  against  her  destiny: 

As  it  was  newly  lighted,  so  sublime 

It  gleamed,  a  signal  of  the  future  time : 

At  the  third  call,  arising  to  her  feet — 

The  abbess,  with  the  black  veil,  came  to  meet 

Her — then  she  signed  the  oath  of  formula, 

While  all  was  breathless — silence,  and  hushed  awe: 

And,  robing  o'er  her  tunic  the  black  veil, 

Her  pale,  fair  face  seemed  more  serenely  pale, 

— She  was  enveloped  in  life's  somber  pall, 

And  bound  by  final  vows,  without  recall. 

XCIII. 

Hildegarde  was  now  a  devoted  nun, 

Her  life  on  earth  and  Koland's  death  were  one 

In  her  absorbing  thought;  her  patient  heart 


202 


jSped  to  eternal  hope,  after  a  time  :  — 
First  bends  the  yielding  bow  wherefrom  the  dart 
Seeks  upward  flight  and  far  —  the  chapel  chime 
Found  her,  each  morning,  midst  the  lovely  throng, 
Going  through  garden-path  and  corridor; 
The  while,  she  smiling,  looked  up  to  the  strong, 
Bright  castrle  of  her  father,   watching  for 
The  loving  parents  who  had  come  to  dwell 
In  sight  of  her,  for  greeting,  or  farewell: 
At  morn  and  eve,  her  brightly  waving  hand, 
They  might  seek  out  from  all,  and  understand 
As  we  in  days  of  God  —  a  thousand  years, 
From  that  time  unto  this,  may  see  her  tears: 
Martyr  and  advocate  !  behold,  tis  well, 
Protest  and  supplication  thou  mayst  tell  ! 

XOIV. 


Return   of   ftolanrl 


Meanwhile,  on  Saxon  borders,  Roland  stayed, 

But  now,  alas !  too  long,  too  long  delayed ; 

For,  sometimes  in  Arragon  or  Navarre, 

Swift  was  his  post  changed,  with  revolting  war, 

To  this  place  and  to  that,  of  battles  din — 

Incursions,  devastating — also,  wherein 

The  Saxons  were  aggressive,  while  the  Franks, 

In  fierce  retaliation,  sought  the  banks 

Of  all  their  boundary  rivers,  to  repress — 

Holding  dominions,  by  each  strong  fortress, 

Till  permanent  subjection,  at  his  feet, 


A    LEGEND   (ft  THE  RHJXE.  203 

Made,  everywhere,  each  strong  success  complete 

To  Charlemagne,  whose  measures  were  defense, 

And  not  ambition — violated  sense 

Of  barbarous  craft  on  part  of  Wittikind, 

Who   robbed,  and   who  destroyed — who  did  not 

bind 

Himself  with  honor's  pledge  that  had  been  given, 
Though  profuse  to  submission  mean,  when  driven  , 
— But  winter's  barriers  of  ice  and  snow, 
Made  each,  in  interval,  his  plans  forego : 
Then  weary,  homeward,  Roland  turned,  at  last, 
When  coldest  blight  had  reached  the  innocence 
Of  the  love,  watching  long,  that  called  him  thence ; 
Many  a  peril,  he  ha.d  risked,  and  passed — 
His  banner  heavy,  with  a  shadowed  world, 
Soon  in  his  ancient  halls  it  might  be  furled. 

xcv. 

Alas!  the  return,  along  the  peopled  shore, 
Of  Roland — the  welcome  he  would  meet  no  more  ! 
Alas !  the  day  that,  on  the  breeze  was  borne, 
The  blast  rung  sweet  and  loud  from  one  clear  horn, 
When  maidens,  singing,  had  with  garlands  come: — 
But  why,  too,  were  tears  ? — why  were  stern  lips 

dumb? 

Issem,  whose  answers  low,  were  sad,  and  brief, 
Told  the  strange  story  to  his  stricken  chief: 
How  can  the  deadly  dread  that  words  control, 
Make  molten  barrenness  of  life's  one  goal  ? 
Like  a  staute,  beside  his  steed  he  stood, 
And  felt,  had  he  died,  ere  that  hour,  'twere  good  ; 


2°4  NONNENWEKTH, 


Then  low  drooped  on  the  sable  mane,  like  lead, 
All  the  utter  strength  of  his  proud,  young  head; 
Oh,  let  us  not  ask  if  she  ever  knew 
How  truly  he  lived,  and  how  fondly  true. 


xcvi. 


There  was  feast  at  the  board,  and  welcoming, 
With  the  bards,  the  guests,  and  the  noble  king; 
— But  for  one  who  had  wandered  out  alone, 
A  minstrel  chanted  this  solemn,  sweet  tone: — 


the    j|ui8tKel0   rfhani. 


Never  on  earth ! 

Never  on  earth ! 

To  meet  any  more,  but  to  live  apart, 
Each  passing  day,  like  a  veil  o'er  the  heart ! 
Oh,  never  to  feel  the  exquisite  soul, 
Like  the  bird  set  free  to  its  wingward  goal ! 

Never  on  earth ! 

Never  on  earth ! 

Though  the  light  go  out  of  the  West  each  day, 
Full  of  harvested  hours — the  season's  May, 
Coming  and  going,  a  cycle  between, 
Dividing  sad  hearts  and  that  which  has  been  ! 

Might  it  be  yet? 

Oh,  vain  regret ! 

The  change  of  a  bitterness  turning  sweet, 
A  life  with  its  greatest  crown  at  your  feet — 
Might  your  dear  hands  fall  in  their  own  loved  way, 
Ah  !  those  lips  are  dumb,  and  those  still  eyes  say: — 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  KHINE.  205 

We  live  as  dead ! 

Joy's  roses  fled  ! 

But,  dear,  though  there  never  may  come  replies, 
To  the  faithful  heart,  wearing  only  sighs, 
Still  twilight  shall  fall  into  purple  haze, 
And  mornings  shall  long  fill  their  golden  days ! 

Forgetting  not! 

What  e'er  life's  lot! 
Though  forever  far,  beyond  portals  pale, 
Are  the  sworn  abiding,  and  sweet  avail ! 
Until  death  shall  come  where  hope  hath  striven, 
Love  will  live  on,  until  blest  in  heaven ! 

Forget  me  not ! 

Forget  me  not ! 

When  the  dust  is  over  the  brave,  bright  brow, 
As  the  blight  is  over  thy  fond,  sweet  vow  ! 
Ah  !  thy  footstep,  bruising  the  green-sward  bed, 
Shall  not  waken  my  veiled  and  slumbering  head ! 

xcvn. 

With  the  burning  stars  and  his  lonely  mood, 

The  singer  then  left  him — well  understood — 

Pain's  thought  was  as  strong  as  a  chainless  flood; 

Roland  hid  and  wept  in  the  underwood : 

— Honors  were  vain  that  the  faithful  king 

On  him  lavished — affections  offering — 

All  the  crowns,  his  renowned  young  years  should 

bring, 

Were  truly  the  ashes  of  roses  now — 
They  might  coldly  fade  on  his  lonely  brow; 


206  NONNENWEKTH, 

For  he  turned  once  more  from  his  mountain  home, 
And  journeyed  to  pray  at  the  shrine  of  Rome, 
And  knelt  at  the  feet  of  the  friendly  Pope: — 
"  O  Father,  displace  from  me  this  great  woe  ! 
Let  the  life,  I  saved,  give  me  love's  one  hope ! 
Or,  let  me  but  wish  the  assassin's  blow 
At  thy  feet,  had  laid  me,  never  to  know 
Refusal,  thy  clemency  may  not  show ! 

XCVIII. 

tl  They  said  she  is  given  to  God,  my  son  ! 

To  God — be  content — let  his  will  be  done  ! 

— Nay,  for  we  cannot — since  the  veil  is  black !" 

So,  disconsolate  then,  he  journeyed  back, 

— If  his  skiff  went  ever  across  the  Khine, 

If  he  dared  to  seek  her  with  word  or  sign, 

If  he  dared  to  ask  of  her  own  heart's  moan — 

Of  all  this — now,  there  is  little  known  : 

Love's  lore  is  lost  in  a  thousand  years, 

But  the  cost  is  kept  of  its  faithful  tears ; 

Yea,  sometimes,  a  little,  as  it  appears  : 

And  though  these  are  of  things  not  now  known 

well — 

Yet  the  vague,  dim  hints  of  tradition  tell 
That  for  years,  alone,  in  Kolandseck  tower, 
He  lived,  letting  wither  life's  love  in  flower. 

xcix. 

What  more  or  less  of  it — records  state 

That  Eoland  would  watch  in  his  window-chair 

From  his  castle,  o'erlooking  the  convent,  where 


A  LEGEND    OF   THE  RHINE.  207 

He  had  built  the  towers  still  standing  there, 
Till  the  sunset  fell  to  the  evening  late, 
Strict  abnegation — Oh  yes  !  it  were  well — 
But  well  he  loved  her,  and  love  would  rebel : 
— When  the  glow  of  the  gloom  and  the  dusk  fell,  oft 
Up  and  down  the  Rhine  went  his  oar's  dip  soft ; 
In  the  garden  path,  she  might  just  delay- 
He  should  see  her,  though  no  word  he  might  say; 
And  he  often  watched  till  the  dawn  of  day. 

c. 

One  day  she  was  missed,  and  he  heard  the  bell, 

O'er  willows  and  waves,  a  requiem  swell — 

'Twas  thought  that  he  died  in  his  chair,  with  pain 

Of  his  stricken  heart,  but  he  roused  again, 

To  go  back  to  the  wars,  and  drown  his  woe 

In  the  crimson  tide  of  the  battle  flow, 

To  perish,  to  ask  of  the  grave  its  rest, 

Midst  the  conquering  brave,  foremost  and  best ; 

— How  he  lived  and  loved,  how  he  died  we  know; 

How  he  sought  the  end  in  the  Pyrenees, 

While  careless  of  all  life's  immunities, 

And  glad  to  seek  death  from  the  grief  of  life, 

Yea,  glad  to  seek  death  on  the  fields  of  strife: 

"Once   more,  once  more  !  "    pealed  his  trumpet's 

clear  call, 

"Come  now  gallant  knights !   Come  to  Eoncevalles! 
Let  me  find  thee,  O  death,  somewhere,  someway  ! 
Farewell,  Rolandseck  !  fare  thee  well,  to-day  ! 
She  is  dead,  my  beautiful !    She  is  clay  !  " 

^^T 

TJNIVERSITT 


208  NONNENWEBTH, 

01. 

With  still  undying  love  of  liberty, 
Treacherous  Lupo,  Duke  of  Gascony, 
Submitting  tribute  unto  Charlemagne, 
Had  all  this  while  been  suffered  to  retain 
His  Duchy  in  the  Pyrenees — so  slight, 
Under  the  Crown  of  France,  must  tenure  be  : 
Its  fastness  in  the  mountains,  near  the  sea, 
Gave  it  position  and  ancestral  right — 
Conceding  little  to  contending  might : 
Only  when  armies  made  obedience  sure, 
The  king's  authority  became  secure  j 
But  Lupo's  fierce  ambition  still  denied 
To  Charlemagne  the  mountain's  southern  side, 
Only  acknowledging  his  sovereignty, 
When,  distant,  unexercised  its  rule  might  be ; 
And  yet,  on  every  side,  surrounded,  he 
Perceived  himself,  while  mad,  ungoverned  rage 
Still  prompted  him,  the  futile  war  to  wage, 
— Miscalculating  effort — to  engage 
In  further  outrage  now  against  the  king: 
In  this  continued  feud  and  suffering, 
Each  member  of  his  family,  defeat 
Disastrously  incurred  and  woe  complete. 

OIL 

But  yet,  he  was  not  warned ;  and  when  he  knew, 
The  ravaging,  wild  Saxons,  on  the  North, 
Imperatively  called  the  monarch  forth, 
Who,  late  confiding  in  his  promise  true, 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  EHINE.  209 

Left  but  the  garrison  armed  with  a  few: 
Lupo,  from  his  mountain  fastness,  saw 
How  slow  the  heavy  horses,  forced  to  draw 
The  baggage  and  the  treasure,  up  the  steep 
And  shelving  footholds — o'er  the  torrents  deep 
Of  rocky  buttressed  hills,  involving  woods 
All  trackless — and  defiles,  and  mountain  floods; 
Or,  if  a  road — the  skirting  hillside's  base 
Above  the  rugged  precipice,  its  place — 
Where  ambush  and  concealment  might  beset, 
The  way,  on  every  side — a  wary  net. 

cm. 

Then  Lupo's  purpose  did  in  thought  awake; 

How  easy  it  would  be  to  undertake, 

The  prompt  destruction  of  the  king's  rear  guard, 

With  probable  success — rapine's  reward 

Was  sure,  he  knew,  and  punishment  remote: 

As  flame-like,  ghastly  lights,  o'er  marshes  float, 

His  wild  thoughts  quickly  flashed,  and  then  grew 

faint ; 

The  consequence — the  king's  wrath  he  might  paint 
In  vivid  colors  to  his  wavering  mind; 
— But  who  hath  reckless  will,  that  is  not  blind — 
And  then  the  chance,  and  the  revenge  so  near, 
Were  cherished  most,  and — dominant  o'er  fear. 

CIV. 

The  king  was  suffered,  undisturbed,  to  pass 
With  the  first  great  division  of  his  host — 
The  weight  of  baggage  made  the  second  mass 
*14 


210  NONNENWEETH, 

Linger  behind;  and  its  commander's  post 
Was  Roland's — dangerous,  as  he  might  dare : 
— Anselm  and  Eggiard,  cousins,  did  share 
His  watchful  duty  and  unceasing  care — 
All  doomed  to  suffer,  most  from  unforeseen 
Disaster  terrible — where  darkly  lean, 
Even  to-day,  the  deep  and  dense  high  wood 
Where  long,  and  vainly  strong,  Roland  withstood 
The  onslaught  of  the  Gascons: — sudden  life 
Seemed  bristling  all  the  hillsides,  and  the  strife 
Of  distant  arrows,  quickly  sped,  that  fell : 
— The  Franks  were  forced  down  to  the  bottom  dell 
Of  Roncevalles;  and  still  the  Gascons  pressed 
Triumph  insatiate,  that  death  confessed. 

cv. 

There  the  brave  Franks,  in  iron-armor,  driven, 
Embarrassed  by  their  arms,  confused,  and  riven 
From  the  main  body,  fought  with  desperate  zeal — 
But  nothing  could  their  ambushed  fate  repeal ; 
And,  knowing  not  the  road-ways,  they  were  blind 
With  blood,  and  with  their  doubts,  comrades  to  find 
From  foes  inveterate  : — thus  Roland's  friend, 
Truest  and  dearest,  Oliver  the  brave, 
Did,  in  such  sudden  madness,  o'er  him  bend — 
Who  gladly  offered  life,  his  friend's  to  save, 
A  thousand  times,  as  they  fought,  side  by  side. 
With  valor  equal,  and  with  equal  pride; 
Now,  blind  with  his  own  blood,  he  felled  a  blow, 
On  the  bright  brow — 'twas  Roland  he  struck  low, 
Who,  reeling  faint,  rebounded  quick  again, 


Af  LEGEND    OF  THE  RHINE.  211 

His  sterner  ardor  now  enchafed  with  pain  : 
— The  nearest  knights  clung  round  him,  and  the  fold 
Of  his  rich  standard  staunched  the  wound  that  bled; 
One  glance  he  gave  its  broidered  arms  of  gold; 
Then,  like  a  stag  at  bay,  he  shook  his  head, 
And  once  more  to  the  centre,  forward  sped, 
O'er  many  a  Gascon  pillowed  on  his  shield, 
And  many  a  brave  companion  of  the  field, 
That  in  the  equal  conflict  would  not  yield. 

CVI. 

Maddened,  he  saw  not,  if  the  glittering  hoof 
Struck  on  the  cuirass  of  some  pulseless^heart, 
With  sparkling,  ruthless  speed — where  death  was 

proof, 

No  pang  of  crushing  steel  could  make  them  start — 
Swift  bounding  o'er  them — his  dread  pathway  lay: 
Hopeless,  he  knew  the  desperate,  fatal  day, 
And  sought  his  last  stand  in  the  thickest  fray: 
— In  the  dense  ambush  of  the  deepest  glade, 
Close  ranged  the  spikes  of  iron  palisade; 
And  yet,  the  narrow  stream  its  pathway  made 
Down  through  the  center  of  the  long  defile, 
Whose  steep  declivity  reached  orer  a  mile : 
Bold  each  sharp  pinnacle — sublime  and  bluff, 
Oppressed  with  grandeur — we  behold  enough  : 
A  fortressed  castle  on  the  southern  end, 
Its  narrow,  deep-set  windows,  gleaming,  send 
Slant  light  into  the  darkness,  weaving  shapes — 
Their  hollow,  muffled  veils  strange  beauty  drapes 
Around  the  wild  flowers  and  the  mountain  ash, 
And  where  the  torrents  o'er  their  barriers  dash. 


212  NONNENWEKTH, 

CVII. 

x 
All  the  high  woods  still  bristled  into  life — 

They  came — the  Gascons  to  the  bloody  strife: 
Many,  entangled  in  the  fray,  once  calling 
Defiance  or  farewell  to  friend  or  foe, 

Swooned  to  the  bottoms,  where  the  wrenched  rock 
falling, 

Drowned  their  last  struggles  in  the  surge  below— 
The  stream  was  red  with  battle — dark  with  death, 
And  soundful  with  the  pangs  of  parting  breath — 
A  disentangled  rest  for  foe  and  foe : 
— Then  here,  at  last,  Lupo  and  Koland  met, 
The  tide  of  battle  not  determined  yet: 
Lupo  had  stormed  the  fortress,  and  had  won 
The  outer  gates — resistance  nearly  o'er: 
"  Sons  of  Abu  Taurus  !  one  blow  more, 
And  the  proud  effort  of  achievement's  done  !  " 
But  at  this  moment  rose  a  mighty  shout 
That  changed  the  fierce,  long  struggle  into  rout : 
"  Turn  to  the  utmost,  craven  !  a  V entrance  ! 
Turn  to  the  closest  point  thy  gleaming  lance ! 
Here  are  my  fellows — only  thirty  left — 
That  through  thy  net  of  ambush,  pathways  cleft !  " 

CVIII. 

As  meteors  burn  that  burst  in  midnight  skies, 
Lupo,  on  Roland,  turned  his  blazing  eyes 
In  wrath's  defiance  and  in  half  surprise — 
Giving  no  response,  asking  no  retreat ; 
Knowing  at  once  that  death  must  share  defeat, 
He  felled  his  cimeter,  flashing  and  fleet: 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  RHINE.  213 

— Swift  as  the  lightning  that  in  storm-clouds  play, 
His  lance,  a  hundred  glittering  fragments  lay; 
Roland's  last  vengeance  might  retaliate — 
But  no,  he  played  with  chance,  reserving  fate; 
Partly,  because  he  wished  revenge  to  sate 
Its  last,  deep  justice  on  his  dastard  foe, 
And  that  he  might,  himself,  some  final  blow 
Receive — for.  all  the  anguish  of  his  soul 
At  sight  of  Lupo,  stirred  its  deep  control. 

CIX. 

He  parried  quickly,  and  still  held  the  strife, 
A  moment,  sometimes  at  the  point  of  life, 
Till  Lupo's  horse  with  one  loud,  anguished  neigh, 
Falling  in  struggle,  on  his  rider  lay: 
Roland  dismounted  on  the  bloody  soil, 
And  helped  his  enemy  to  rise — u  No  foil 
Or  accident  shall  bar  our  mutual  hate  ! 
We  stand  together,  now  defend  your  fate ! 
There,  still  your  sword,  and  here  still  flashes  mine, 
Our  lives  the  vantage,  and  strong  death  the  line 
Of  stern,  divided  strife  !  the  Red-Cross  sign 
And  thy  pale  Crescent  well  are  matched,  Lupo, 
And  in  one  grave,  to-night,  must  slumber  low !  " 
Again  their  swords  crossed,  but  the  sanguine  flow 
Of  Roland's  wounded  brow  warned  him,  that  faint 
Cessation  must  come  o'er  him  soon  :  no  plaint 
Stirred  his  proud  lip,  till  staggering — he  paled : 
Lupo  perceived  this  chance,  and  quick  availed 
His  lifted  cimeter  to  end  the  strife  ; — 


214  NONNENWERTH, 

One  keen,  relentless  thrust — but  Roland,  rife 

"With  latent  energy  in  death's  last  throe, 

Gave  him,  in  turn,  an  unexpected  blow  : 

— The  Gascons  were  the  victors  in  that  fight ; 

But  Lupo  never  knew  his  triumph's  might — 

Dead,  beside  Roland — there  they  lay — those  two: 

Above  them,  that  same  nightj  falling  the  dew 

Alike  on  each;  the  enmity,  they  knew, 

Beneath  it — coldly  quenched— the  false — the  true. 

ex. 

"Was  it  at  sunset  or  at  dawn  of  day 

This  battle  terrible — no  records  say; 

So  great  was  the  defeat,  so  dear  the  slain, 

That  history  withheld,  much  of  the  pain 

Of  its  recital  while  lived  Charlemagne; 

And,  after  the  great  life  of  that  great  king? 

So  much  romance  and  record  to  it  cling, 

That  we  are  left  in  wonder — wondering. 

— Roland  threw  oft  his  helmet,  ere  his  fall ; 

And  where  it  dropped,  the  grass  took  crimson  stain; 

And  ever  since,  a  flower's  coronal, 

In  sweet  remembrance  of  it,  doth  remain, 

Blooming  in  that  deep  dell  of  Pyrenees, 

And  called  for  it,  in  tryst  of  his  last  peace, 

The  lt  Casque  de  Roland/'  bright  in  sun  and  breeze; 

And  on  the  mountain  there  is  shown  a  rock; 

Hollowed,  indented  by  the  riving  shock, 

When  there  he  struck  his  great  sword  "DurandaP 

To  shatter  it — what  hand  could  e'er  recall 

The  valor  that  had  wielded  it  ? — alone 


MJNIVERSITT) 

A   LEGEND  OF  THE  KHINE.  215 

It  perished  in  his  hand  —  cold  as  a  stone  — 
The  fiery  flint  that  magic  steel  must  own  : 
And  this  is  why  that  rocky  cleft,  to-day  — 
A  curving  line  across  the  mountain's  way, 
Is  shown  —  the  "  Breche  de  Roland/'  so  they  say, 


And  at  his  horn's  last,  marvelous,  sweet  sound, 
The  forest  birds  fell  dead  for  miles  around  ; 
Its  long,  clear  peal  of  agony  intense 
Startled  the  king,  and  thrilled  his  fear's  quick  sense, 
Who  heard  it  at  St.  Jean  :    (i  I  must  go  hence," 
He  said,  "  that  sound  is  Roland's  dying  blast, 
And  his  defeat  and  death  it  doth  forecast  !  " 

—  And  so  it  was  :  —  there,  shivered,  near  the  stream, 
His  bright  blade  long  invincible  —  bereft 

Of  all  its  valiant  ardor  ;  and  the  gleam, 

Through  the  dark  sedges  of  the  strong  shield,  cleft, 

—  Its  gilded  arabesque,  from  crown  to  base, 
Once  the  fond  care  of  armor-bearers  —  now 
Lending  its  lustre  to  the  pallid  face, 

And  lying  heavily  upon  the  brow, 

That,  it  had  shielded  oft  —  o'er  that  wild  spot, 

The  eve  closed  •  and  the  combat  he  forgot. 


We  see  him  in  the  red  dust,  where  he  fell; 

We  know  how  throbbed  the  high  heart's  parting 

swell  ; 

How  tight  the  broken  hilt  in  his  closed  hand, 
How  firm  the  closed  lip  from  its  last  command  : 


<>  NONNENWERTH, 

Among  the  slain,  the  fairest  and  the  best, 

Close  to  the  sanguine  sward,  his  pale  cheek  pressed: 

— How  soft  the  starlight  and  the  moonlight  rose 

After  the  tumult,  o'er  the  dread  repose  1 

No  sob,  no  sound  upon  the  evening's  close; 

Love,  that  had  mourned  him,  was  where  weeping's 

stilled: 
Night   deepened,    and    soft   winds   through    pine 

boughs  thrilled: 

Wrapt  in  his  own  cooled  blood — a  crimson  pall — 
Amidst  the  woods  and  hills  of  Roncevalles — 
Dear — dead — and  beautiful !  and  that  is  all ! 

CXIIL 

The  Convent  of  Nonnenwerth  still  is  seen 
From  Roderberg's  height  where  the  turrets  lean: 
And  nature,  who  deviates  not  her  way, 
Is  still  as  she  was  in  the  olden  day  : 
Still  the  rays  of  morn,  over  Kolandseck, 
On  the  Lake  of  Nonnenwerth,  softly  break; 
And  the  Convent  windows  reflect  the  light 
From  the  basalt  pinnacle,  steep  and  bright  j 
And  green  is  the  Isle,  in  the  Island  stream, 
As  a  radiant  emerald  in  its  gleam : 
Still  the  Vesper  bells  of  the  Convent  ring, 
And  the  fringing  willows  their  shadows  fling — 
Dusk-waving  willows,  full  of  trembling  gloom, 
Where  strangers  linger  near  her  quiet  tomb  ; 
And  there  she  sleepeth,  for  a  thousand  years — 
Her  sweet  eyes  closed  upon  the  troubled  tears: 
Surely,  God  gave,  at  last,  the  just  reward 


Still  the  Vesper  bells  of  the  Convent  ring, 
And  the  fringing  willows  their  shadows  fling— 
Dusk-waving  willows,  full  of  trembling  gloom. 
Where  strangers  linger  near  her  quiet  tomb; 
And  there  she  sleepeth,  for  a  thousand  years — 
Her  sweet  eyes  closed  upon  the  troubled  tears." 

Page  116.— Stanza  CA'III. 


A  LEGEND   OF  THE  RHINE.  217 

Of  her  blessiDg  lost,  unto  Hildegarde ! 
Let  us  hope,  her  joy  had  in  Heaven  birth, 
Beyond  the  sorrow  she  had  known  on  Earth  ! 

cxiv. 

She  looks,  no  more,  up  to  the  tower  height ; 
She  looks,  no  more,  upon  love's  flower  blight — 
Where  the  Arch  moulders,  and  the  peristyles, 
In  the  last  radiance  of  the  sunset-smiles  ! 
—  In  despair's  surcease  Roland  built  that  tow'r 
Of  love's  watch  lingering,  hour  after  hour, 
When  his  faithful  heart  lived  and  wept,  alone, 
In  bitter  anguish  that  is  dead  and  gone ! 
— Fair  is  "  Rascida  Vallis  "—  far  and  fair — 
The  "  Casque  de  Roland  "  is  still  blooming  there  ! 
Should  you  walk  beside  its  bright,  crimson  bell, 
Sit  down  and  list  to  what  the  maidens  tell, 
For  I  have  told  it,  not  one-half,  so  well ! 
There's  the  "  Breche  de  Roland  " — its  fissure  deep; 
And  chapel  where  he  lieth,  long  asleep! 
And  may  its  memories  thy  kind  heart  keep  ; 
For  true  this  story,  though  the  fate  so  hard, 
Of  faithful  Roland  and  fair  Hildegarde  ! 


218  NONNENWERTH, 


NOTES. 


NOTE  1.— STANZA  V. 
Blown  seaward  unto  thee,  O  Golden  Gate; 

"Blows  with  a  perfume  of  songs  and  memories, 
Blows  from  the  capes  of  the  past  over  sea  to  the  bays  of  the 
present. ' ' — Swinburne's  Hesperia. 

NOTE  2.— STANZA  VII. 
The  night  had  come!  Mons.  Jovis  under  snow, 

Mons.  Jovis  was  the  ancient  name  of  Mount  St.  Bernard.  A 
temple  of  Jupiter  formerly  occupied  the  site  of  the  present  famous 
monastery. 

NOTE  3.— STANZA  X. 
Byzantine  fabrics  from  the  cities  old : 

There-was  a  sort  of  cloth  known  to  the  ancients,  and  called 
Bysus,  the  quality  of  its  texture  is  not  now  exactly  known, — 
whether  cotton,  linen,  or  silk — is  a  matter  of  dispute. 

NOTE  4. — STANZA  XI. 
An  Indian  Goddess  of  Tanjore's  great  shrine; 

The  magnificence  of  the  East  Indian  temples  is  well  known  to 
the  reader,  particularly  those  of  the  Deccan,  and  the  more  southern 
portion  of  India:  Their  structure  is  peculiar;  in  many  instances 
they  are  excavated  out  of  the  rocky  hillsides,  as  are  those  of  Ele- 
phanta,  and  Kenneri,  and  the  great  cave  of  Carli; — spacious,  lofty 
and  richly  sculptured.  The  pyramidal  temples  called  Pagodas,  are 
also  numerous  in  the  south  of  India;  but  in  grandeur  and  beauty, 
they  are  all  eclipsed  bythat  of  Tanjore, — a  city  long  celebrated  as 
the  most  learned  and  opulent  in  the  south  of  India.  Previous 
to  1833  Lord  Valentia  gave  a  cursory  account  of  its  wonderful  tem 
ple,  although  he  was  not  allowed  to  enter  its  sacred  precincts,  but 
from  the  door  he  obtained  a  view  of  the  interior,  which  contained 
the  gigantic  figure  of  a  bull,  in  black  granite;  this  revered  animal 
was  a  favorable  specimen  of  Hindoo  sculpture. 


A  LEGEND   OF  THE  RHINE.  219 

NOTE  5.— STANZA  XVII. 

Surprised  Noureddin  in  his  mighty  tent, 

Gilbert  De  Lacy,  Knight  Templar,  was  one  of  the  Crusaders 
possessing  English  fiefs :  He  accomplished  this  dangerous  feat  in 
the  reign  of  Stephen;  I  have  inserted  it,  although  occurring  a  cen 
tury  or  two  later  than  the  theme  of  the  poem — with  that  desire 
of  adding  to  romance,  historic  incident,  and  with  perhaps  a  little  of 
the  pardonable  pride,  of  a  great  precedent, — Sir  Walter  Scott,  who 
introduced  his  ancestral  name  of  Scott,  in  his  "Lay  of  the  last 
Minstrel." 

NOTE  6.— STANZA  XVII  I. 
Like  webs  in  winter,  rock  to  rock  enlaced; 

The  banks  of  the  Arno  on  either  side,  are  flanked  by  plantations 
of  the  olive  and  vine,  the  deep  blue  green  of  the  former  contrasting 
strikingly  with  the  light  verdure  of  the  vine  leaves.  They  are 
planted  in  alternate  rows;  and  the  intervening  soil  frequently 
made  to  yield  a  crop  of  barley.  Towards  evening  we  saw  a  few 
fireflies,  but  these  beautiful  and  remarkable  insects  do  not  appear 
to  flourish  in  Europe  as  in  the  East,  where  they  convert  the  whole 
atmosphere  into  a  galaxy  of  twinkling  stars.  The  cicada  made  a 
prodigious  chirping  by  the  road  side;  almost  the  whole  way  from 
Home  it  kept  up  an  incessant  noise,  scarcely  audible  when  the  car 
riage  was  in  motion,  but  sufficient  to  stun  the  ear  the  moment  of  a 
halt.— Notes  of  a  Wanderer—  W.  F.  Gumming,  M.  D. 

NOTE  7.— STANZA  XIX. 

These  were  the  haunting  Gnomes  of  Whisperthal; 

The  Whisper  is  a  small  tributary  ef  the  river  Rhine,  regarded  by 
the  inhabitants  with  awe,  on  account  of  its  voiceful  cadences.  The 
Stone  of  Lorch  is  not  far  from  it,  on  which  the  Gnomes  are  sup 
posed  to  sacrifice  young  ladies  unless  they  are  rescued. 

NOTE  8.— STANZA  XXI. 
Whose  roofless  walls  amid  the  forest  stand — 

The  ruins  of  Ehrenfels  are  lonely  and  beautiful,  in  the  forest  of 
Niederwald.  The  Chapel  of  St.  Roch  is  above  it  on  the  hill,  and 
the  views  in  the  neighborhood  are  in  keeping  with  the  sublimity 
of  the  Beech  and  Oak  shades  of  Niederwald.  The  luxuriant  vine 
yards  of  Rudesheim  are  in  the  vicinity. 

NOTE  9.— STANZA  XXVII. 
But  \vho  were  Hunald  and  the  feared  Lupo  ? 

Eudes,  the  father  of  Hunald,  had  leagued  with  the  Saracens, 
against  Charles  Martel,  who  still  triumphed,  and  forgave  his  apos- 
tacy,  and  his  enmity.  After  the  death  of  Eudes  his  territories  were 


220  NONNENWERTH, 

divided  between  his  three  sons,  and  his  repugnance  to  the  French 
was  transmitted  with  his  territories ;  Hunald,  who  was  the  oldest 
of  the  sons,  received  Aquitaine  for  his  portion,  but  was  soon 
forced  to  submit  to  Charles,  though  the  spirit  of  revolt  still  existed. 
Hatton  was  blinded  by  his  brother,  Hunald,  in  order  that  he 
might  acquire  supremacy;  but  disappointment  and  remorse — the 
continued  defeat  of  his  efforts  at  revolt,  made  the  courage  of  Hun 
ald  sink,  and  in  disgust  he  gave  a  temporary  farewell  to  the  world, 
resigning  his  Dukedom  to  his  son  "Waifer,  he  retired  into  a  Mon 
astery.  Waifer  was  equally  turbulent  and  so  it  went,  Hunald  sub 
sequently  leaving  the  Monastery,  and  again  calling  all  Aquitaine  to 
arms.  Lupo  was  the  cousin  of  Waifer,  and  the  nephew  of  Hun 
ald;  whether  Abu  Taurus  was  the  other  brother  of  Hunald  is  a 
question,  but  Lupo  was  really  the  nephew  of  Hunald.  The  early 
accounts  of  those  personages  vary,  according  to  different  authorities  • 
I  have,  perhaps,  taken  advantage  of  this  as  far  as  some  slight 
changes  of  time,  place  or  character,  allowable  to  historic  romance* 
in  some  of  the  statements.  Abu  Taurus  was  really  a  Saracen  emir, 
and  whether  Lupo's  family  had  intermarried  with  the  Mohammed 
ans  is  not  on  record,  but  merely  supposition,  on  the  grounds  that 
such  marriages  had  become  occasional,  especially  between  the 
Christians  of  the  Asturias,  and  the  Saracens,  the  latter  having  gain 
ed  supremacy  over  them.  There  is  recently  published  a  new  edition 
of  the  original  Eginhard's  life  of  Charlemagne,  but  I  have  refer 
ence  to  the  version  of  G.  P .  R.  James,  whose  notes  from  Egin- 
hard  are  very  extensive,  together  with  notes  from  the  annals  called 
Loisclani,  and  others.  This  is  also  true  as  to  the  remarks  in  the 
preface  of  Nonnenwerth  about  Roland's  parentage  and  place  of 
burial, 

NOTE  10.— STANZA  XXX. 
In  Bhady  dells  the  Maccabees  had  passed, 

The  ruins  of  this  castle  are  on  the  road  from  Gaza  to  Jerusalem, 
and  the  more  modern  village  of  Kobab  is  not  far  from  it.  Near  by, 
are  the  remains  of  an  ancient  Christian  church,  the  castle  and 
church  are  mentioned  by  Cuison,  and  must  have  been  still  in  good 
preservation,  during  the  eighth  century. 

NOTE  11.— STANZA  XXXI. 
The  Pools  of  Grihon  where  a  King  was  crowned, 
Solomon. 

NOTE  12.— STANZA  XXXIII. 

There  were  some  pious  merchants  selling  beads, 

Although  the  Rosary  in  its  present  form,  was  not  used  so  early 
as  the  date  mentioned,  yet,  a  sort  of  chaplet  for  numbering 


A    LEGEND   OF  THE   RHINE.  221 

prayers  was  in  existence. — Pebbles  and  other  things  were  used  for 
the  same  purpose.  The  Mohammedans  use  a  Rosary  something 
like  that  of  the  Christians. 

NOTE  13.— STANZA  XXXV. 
The  Holy  Cross,  long  hidden  from  all  view. 

The  Holy  Cross,  and  the  crosses  of  the  two  thieves,  after  the  cru 
cifixion  were  thrown  into  the  town  ditch,  or  as  some  accounts 
state,  into  an  old  vault  near  by;  here  they  were  soon  covered  by 
the  refuse  of  the  city.  The  Empress  Helena  made  a  pilgrimage  to 
Jerusalem,  in  her  old  age,  and  threatened  all  the  Jewish  inhabitants 
with  torture  and  death, lif  they  did  not  produce  the  Holy  Cross  from 
the  place  where  their  ancestors  had  concealed  it, — one  old  fellow 
who  was  said  to  possess  authentic  information,  was  nearly  starved, 
in  prison,  when  he  consented  to  reveal  the  secret.  The  Legends 
of  the  Cross  are  numerous  and  some  of  them  poetically  beautiful. 
The  old  Jew  mentioned,  petitioned  heaven,  whereupon  the  earth 
trembled,  soon  a  sweet  odor  issued  forth — the  soil  in  that  spot  be 
ing  removed,  the  three  crosses  were  discovered,  together,  with  the 
superscription  belonging  to  the  principal  one,  whose  identity  then 
became  a  fresh  anxiety  to  the  Empress, — giving  rise  to  those 
numerous  speculations  that  are  since  extant,  and  so  full  of  mystic 
analogy. 

NOTE  14.— STANZA  XXXVIII. 

Such  was  really  the  impressive  and  princely  gift  of  Haroun  Al 
Raschid  to  Charlemagne — the  keys  of  the  Holy  City  and  the 
Christian  standard. 

NOTE  15. — STANZA  L. 
I  am  exacting  as  the  King  Clovis, 

The  name  of  Clovis  is  remembered  as  much  on  account  of  the 
vase  of  Soissons,  as  for  any  event  of  his  reign.  It  is  thought,  this 
elegant  vase  belonged  to  the  Sacred  buildings  of  Rheims  which 
were  despoiled  of  many  articles  of  value.  It  was  of  immense  size 
and  exceedingly  curious  workmanship.  St.  Remi,  the  eloquent 
and  talented  Bishop  of  Rheims,  whose  fame  jjat  this  time  was 
spreading  through  Gall,  had  influence  with  Clovis,  and  asked  him 
to  restore  the  vase.  "Follow  me  to  Soissons, "  replied  the  King 
to  the  messengers,  "there  the  booty  is  to  be  divided,  and  if  it  be  in 
my  power,  the  prelate's  desire  shall  be  gratified."  On  their  arrival 
at  Soissons  the  troops  assembled,  and  the  mass  of  the  plunder  lay 
in  a  glittering  heap,  waiting  to  be  portioned  off,  each  man  accord 
ing  to  his  lot.  The  King  turning  to  the  soldiers  whom  he  had  so 
often  led  to  victory — pointed  to  the  magnificent  vase  and  desired 
that  it  might  be  assigned  to  him;  many  of  the  soldiers  at  once  con 
sented,  but  one,  jealous  of  the  invasion  of  the  usual  custom,  or 


222  NONNENWEKTH, 

hoping  to  obtain  the  prize  himself,  raised  his  axe  and  dashed  it 
down  on  the  vase,  exclaiming  in  answer  to  the  King's  demand, 
"thou  shalt  have  nothing  here  but  that  which  fortune  shall  give 
thee  by  lot."  For  a  moment  all  was  silent  consternation,  but  the 
general  voice  assigning  the  vase  to  Clovis,  it  was  returned, 
although  so  sadly  injured,  to  the  messenger  of  the  Bishop.  It  may 
be  supposed  a  barbarian  monarch  would  find  it  not  easy  to  suppress 
his  resentment  at  so  great  an  outrage  and  provocation,  and  his 
power  and  popularity  were  sufficient  to  uphold  him  in  any  meas 
ure,  however  extreme  against  the  culprit,  but  with  strong  self  con 
trol,  he  maintained  that  composure  to  which  he  owed  his  suprem 
acy,  and  power  over  his  subjects.  One  year  after,  at  the  general 
assembly  of  the  people,  in  the  Champs  de  Mars,  when  according  to 
the  custom,  all  the  warriors  presented  themselves  before  the  mon 
arch  to  show  that  their  arms  and  equipments  were  kept  in  good 
order,  'the  young  soldier  who  had  broken  the  vase  presented  him 
self  with  signs  of  negligence  in  the  condition  of  his  weapons,  in 
any  event,  such  accusation  could  easily  be  made  for  slight  cause, 
and  when  he  stood  before  the  King,  the  latter  exclaimed  in  wrath, 
"None  show  themselves  here  with  such  arms  as  thine, — thy  lance, 
thy  battle  axe,  all,  are  disgraceful  to  a  soldier  !"  The  young  man 
stooped  in  silence  to  pick  up  his  axe  from  where  the  King  thad 
thrown  it,  but  as  he  did  so,  Clovis  with  a  blow  of  his  weapon 
called  a  francisque,  smote  him  to  the  ground  never  to  rise  again, 
saying,  "so  did'st  thou  strike  the  vase  of  Soissons." 

NOTE  16.— STANZA  LI. 

Each  shoulder  marked,  each  shell.medallioned  hat, 
A  scallop-shell  on  the  front  of  the  broad  brimmed  hat,  and  the 
red  cross  embroidered  or  braided  on  the  left  shoulder  of  the  cloak 
destinguished  the  returned  pilgrim. 

NOTE   17.— STANZA  LII. 
The  Duke  Friuli,  and  brave  Count  Gerold, 

Heric,  Duke  of  Friuli,  commanded  an  immense  and  willing 
army  against  the  Huns,  for  Charlemagne,  and  returned  with  the 
largest  booty  that  had  ever  been  ceptured  by  any  of  his  armaments, 
a  portion  of  this  was  taken  to  Eome  by  Angelbert.  Count  Gerold 
was  another  of  Charlemagne's  officers,  who  with  the  Duke  of 
Friuli  commanded  the  forces  on  the  frontier  of  Saxony;  he  was 
slain  while  addressing  his  army  preparatory  to  a  general  battle . 
The  Duke  Friuli  was  also  subsequently  led  into  ambush  and  killed 
•with  all,  his  followers. 

NOTE  18.— STANZA  LXII. 
Loud  voices  called  Campulus  and  Paschal, 

The  hatred  which  Campulus  and  Paschal,  the  two  disappointed 
aspirants  to  the  Papacy  had  conceived  against  the  more  successful 


A  LEGEND   OF  THE  RHINE.  223 

Leo,  had  slumbered,  but  was  not  extinct.  The  ecclesiastical  sit 
uations  held  by  the  two  factions  of  Romans  and  the  favor  with 
which  they  were  regarded  by  the  unsuspecting  Leo  himself,  gave 
them  many  opportunities  of  revenge.  They  hoped  by  a  mixture  of 
boldness  and  art  to  escape  the  consequence  of  their  crime.  The 
moment  they  chose  for  the  perpetration  of  their  design  was  while 
the  Pope,  attended  by  all  the  clergy  and  followed  by  the 
populace,  rode  through  a  part  of  the  city  performing  what  they 
called  the  Greater  Litany.  Paschal  and  Campulus  were  placed 
close  to  the.person  of  the  Chief  Pontiff,  and  are  said  to  have  receiv 
ed  from  him  some  new  mark  of  kindness  on  that  very  morning. 
All  passed  tranquilly  till  the  line  of  the  procession  approached  the 
monastery  of  St.  Stephen  and  St.  Sylvester,  and  even  then,  the  ban 
ners  and  crosses,  the  clerks  and  chorists  which  preceeded  were 
permitted  to  advance  till  suddenly  as  the  higher  clergy  began  to 
traverse  the  space  before  the  building,  armed  men  were  seen  min 
gling  among  the  people.  The  march  of  the  procession  was  ob 
structed.  A  panic  seized  both  the  populace  and  the  clergy,  all  fled 
but  Campulus,  Paschal  and  their  abettors,  and  Leo  was  left 
alone  in  the  hands  of  the  conspirators.  The  Pontiff  was  immedi 
ately  assailed  and  cast  upon  the  ground,  and  with  eager  and  trem 
bling  hands— for  crime  is  generally  fearful — the  traitors  proceeded 
to  attempt  the  extinction  of  his  sight  and  the  mutilation  of  his 
tongue.  It  is  possible  that  the  struggles  of  their  unfortunate  victim 
disappointed  the  strokes  of  the  conspirators,  and  that  his  exhaustion 
from  terror,  exertion  and  loss  of  blood  deceived  them  into  the 
belief  that  they  had  more  than  accomplished  their  purpose; 
dispersing  the  moment  the  deed  was  committed,  the  chief  conspira 
tors  left  the  apparently  lifeless  body  of  the  prelate  to  be  dragged 
into  the  monastery]of  St.  Erasmus. — See  Life  of  Charlemagne  by  G-. 
P.  E.  James,  Esq. 


WHERE  SHE  SLEEPS  IN  SANTA  CLARA. 


stately  and  pale,  my  Lady,  you  sleep, 
First  falling  leaves  of  the  winter  wind  sweep 
Down  on  thy  fair  feet,  and  over  thy  head; 
Thy  sensitive  lips  have  not  a  word  said, 
Of  the  cold  or  the  rain  for  many  a  week: 
Can  it  be  I  still  would  list  them  to  speak, 
And  they  do  not  ? — from  thy  bonny  brown  eye 
A  glance  never  more, — I  lean  tenderly, 
Where  I  only  may  see,  oval  and  dark, 
Thy  bed  hollowed  out  in  the  wild-wood  park, 
Where  the  bird  shall  linger,  that  comes  in  spring, 
A  sad  sweet  singer  who  will  lift  his  wing 
And  leave  more  lonely  the  spot  of  thy  rest, 
As  trembles  his  shadow  across  thy  breast : 
There  are  walks  where  thy  feet^o  more  may  tread. 
Like  the  mid-summer  rose,  thy  bloom  is  fled: 
We  kissed  thee,  and  covered,  and  called  thee  dead. 

The  author's  mother,  who  died  October  18th,  1879. 
*15 


226  "ET  ELLE  EST  MUETTE." 

But  to  thy  freed  spirit,  are  other  things 
Than  the  birds  that  droop  with  o'er-wearied  wings, 
Or  the  autumn  sun's  dim,  declining  rays, 
O'er  thy  burial-place  after  vanished  days, — 
Not  so  vainly  sweet  as  the  cross  and  wreath, 
We  left  there  to  perish  the  first  lone  eve  ; 
Serenely  secure  now  thy  hope  and  faith, 
While,  alas  1  forever  we  love  and  grieve  ! 

CHEISTMAS  EVE,  1879. 


"  ET  ELLE  EST  MUETTE." 


POWERS'  GEEEK   SLAVE. 


[HERE  is  no  quiver  in  the  grace  that  lies 

Across  her  downcast  eyes : 
And  out  of  marble  hath  a  chisel  made. 
The  quiet,  pallid  hands  so  languid  laid — 
Naked,  and  with  your  eyes  upon  her  set, 
"Et  elle  est  muette." 

The  fine  round  wrist  where  hang  the  modeled  links, 

Stirs  not,  throbs  nqj;,  nor  shrinks  ; 

No  glow  of  glorious  rose  burns  in  her  cheek — 

Donato's  could  not,  neither  can  she,  speak  ; 

Is  she  thy  love  ?  0  sculptor  desolate  ! 

"Et  elle  est  muette." 


"ET  ELLE  EST  MUETTE."  227 

"Marco,  par  che  non  mi  parli  ?  "  *    Ah,  no  ! 
That  Mark  did  never  answer  Angel o  ! 
0  Powers !  fame  is  thine  o'er  all  the  earth  : 
But  from  her  lips  no  sound  of  grief  or  mirth, 
Thy  spell  of  silence  there,  unbroken  yet 
"Et  elle  est  muette." 


REMEMBRANCE, 


sKjfcfoOW,  the  blue  light  of  manly  eyes 

Stirs  in  my  heart  no  grieved  surprise, 

If  passion's  veiled  in  their  sweet  grace, 

I  only  see  thine  absent  face. 
The  footstep  that  could  hush  my  heart 
To  hear,  is  thine  ;  so  far  apart. 

I  know,  I  say,  so  like  to  him, 

And  with  sweet  tears  my  eyes  are  dim  ; 
The  hurt  of  human  feeling,  worn 
As  though  thy  rose  had  dropped  a  thorn  ! 


*  One  of  the  bronze  statues  of  Donate  de  Bardi,  a  St.  Mark, 
•vras  so  admirably  executed  that,  on  first  seeing  it,  Michael  Angelo 
addressed  it  in  these  emphatic  words:  ''Marco,  par  che  non  mi 
parli  ?"  Mark,  \vhy  do  you  not  speak  to  me  ? 


INSCKIBED  TO  MBS.  K. 


The  pearl  and  purple  of  thy  gentle  eyes, 

So  wistful,  asking  me  for  song  or  sign : 

What  thoughts,  my  friend,  my  dear,  shall  I  entwine 

For  thy  demanding  heart  ?     What  true  replies  ? 

Shall  I  say  that  thine  eyelids  drooped,  and  strove 
With  the  blind,  bitter  tears  that  fell  between  ? 
Wherefore,  I  need  not  tell  thee  what  hath  been, 
So  well  thou  knowest,  Lady  of  my  love  ! 

Or  might  I  tell  of  the  sweet  interspace, 
Wherein  thy  bright  lips  sighed  and  grew  more  paler 
Though  wearing  smiles,  not  less  sweet,  for  a  veil — 
But  through  all  still  beholding — What  rare  face  ! 

The  curled  waves  of  the  gold  sea  in  the  sun, 
Are  the  same  garments  of  the  shoreward  tide : 
He,  too,  gained  Paradise,  who  had  denied; 
Belief  and  disavowal — are  they  one  ? 

Sorrow  and  joy,  my  dear — are  they  two  things  ? 
The  coral-footed  dove  that  doth  alight, 
Is  she  not  just  the  same  that  taketh  flight, 
Afar,  afar,  on  her  white  lifted  wings  ? 


LAMENT     OF 


LEONORA    D'ESTE 


AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  "LAMENT  OF  TASSO." 


It  is  now  generally  considered,  that  the  suffering  and  imprison 
ment  of  Tasso,  at  the  hands  of  Alphonzo  of  Este,  the  brother  of 
Leonora,  were  owing  to  the  unhappy  love  of  Tasso  for  Leonora; 
there  is  much  speculation  existing  on  the  parts  of  J.  H.  Wiifen, 
Foscolo,  and  some  refutation  on  the  part  of  Serassi  as  to  the  regard 
of  Leonora  for  Tasso; — and  Byron  seems  to  accept  the  conclusion 
that  Leonora  loved  Tasso,  while  she  dared  not  give  much  testimony 
of  this  regard.  It  may  be  supposed  that  a  princess  of  the  house 
of  Este  would  not  seem  to  encourage  the  poor  poet,  but  the  latter 
in  a  conzone  to  her,  appealingly  said;  "Chi  mi  guido?"  "What 
star  guided  me  hither  and  promised  me  hope?"  All  the  presump 
tions  of  probability  and  all  the  arguments  of  reason  concur  to  answer 
Leonora.  Such  are  the  opinions  of  Wiffen  and  Foscolo,  whom  he 
quotes.  Byron,  also,  who  turned  when  at  Farrara  with  more  in 
terest  to  the  prison  cell  of  Tasso  in  the  hospital  of  St.  Anna  than 
he  did  to  the  monument  of  Aristo,  seems  to  be  convinced  of  Leo 
nora's  responsive  love;  even  while  he  makes  Tasso  deprecate  her 
reserve  in  the  famous  "Lament"  he  expresses  the  existence  of  some 
secret  hope  as  witness  the  following : 

"I  told  it  not,  I  breathed  it  not;  it  was 
Sufficient  to  itself— its  own  reward, 
And  if  my  eyes  reveal'd  it,  they,  alas  ! 
"Were  punished  by  the  silentness  of  thine; 
And  yet  I  did  not  venture  to  repine." 


230  LAMENT    OF 

The  italics  are  introduced  in  the  present  quoting  to  show  Byron's 
accredited  opinion  that  Tasso  was  convinced  ia  his  secret  hopes, 
whatever  may  have  been  the  expression  of  his  discontent  at  the 
adversity  of  circumstances.  And  again  he  makes  Tasso  say:  "And 
thou,  Leonora;  thou  who  wert  ashamed  that  such  as  I  could  love, 
— who  blushed  to  hear-r-."  Byron,  in  his  researches  of  old  Italian 
manuscripts  and  libraries  had  perhaps  a  better  chance  than  either 
"Wiffen  or  Foseolo  of  forming  an  opinion  on  this  subject.  In  the 
above  lines  he  expresses  that  peculiar  fear  which  accompanies  the 
responsive  love  of  a  woman  so  placed  as  Leonara,  without  which 
there  would  be  indifference  and  not  love,  and  in  the  presence  of 
which  there  is  love,  trembling  and  true.  Again,  a  few  lines'  lower 
down,  so  sure  does  Tasso  seem  of  Leonora's  suffering  in  common 
with  his  own  that  he  incites  Leonora  to  go  and  reproach  her  broth 
er  with  their  mutual  misery — 

"Go  tell  thy  brother  that  my  heart  untamed 

By  grief,  years  of  weariness,  and  it  may  be 

A  taint  of  that  he  would  impute  to  nie, 

From  long  infection  of  a  den  like  this 

"Where  the  mind  rots  congenial  with  the  abyss, 

Adores  thee  still: — and  add — that  when  the  towers, 

And  battlements  which  guard  his  joyous  hours, 

Of  banquet,  dance,  and  revel,  are  forgot, 

Or  left  untended  in  a  dull  repose, 

This — this,  shall  be  a  consecrated  spot. 

But  thou — when  all  that  birth  and  beauty  throws 

Of  magic  round  thee  is  extinct, — shalt  have 

One  half  the  laurel  that  o'er  shades  my  grave." 

This  prophecy  is  now  incontrovertible,  not  less  from  the  pen  of 
Byron  than  from  the  sorrowful  forethought  of  Tasso,  and  since  so 
many  have  tendered  sympathetic  tribute  to  Tasso  in  this: — the 
following  lines  are  in  the  same  spirit  inscribed  by  their  author  to 
the  memory  of  Leonora  of  Este  : 


>E  thou  at  rest,  where  silence  folds  her  wing, 

My  dove,  in  "clefts  of  rock,"  by  strange  seas 
broken !  * 

I  speak  or  smile,  I  dream  awhile  or  sing : 
And  yet  to  thee,  send  never  word  or  token  ! 

*  "My  dove  in  the  clefts  of  the  rock,  in  the  hollow  places  of  the 
wall,  show  me  thy  face." — Solomon's  Canticles. 


OF  THE 

X7NIVERSI1 

LEONORA    D'ESTE.  231 

Say,  love,  they're  censer  fires  with  lid  unraised  • 
Or  Druid  wands  with  mystic  leaf  and  meaning! 

He  was  not  spoken  to,  whom  angels  praised — 

His  throne  is  veiled,  whereon  are  seraphs  leaning ! 


But  I  will  know  thee,  in  the  dreamy  close 

Of  music7  and  the  drench  of  water-flowers — 
In  the  high  dome's  imperial  repose, 

When  day  is  turning  into  twilight  hours  ! 

And,  oh,  when   sobs   break  on    some  midnight 

sleep, 
Sweet  love  its  tryst  shall  keep  ! 

What  though,  with  pealing  glory  of  renown, 

My  dark  bereavement  yet  should  crowned  be, 
Still  would  I  gaze  far  up  to  where  thy  throne 
Is  out  of  reach,  0  brow,  that  beams  on  me ! 
Some  earthward  angel's  pinion,  widely  spread, 
Its  glory,  on  thee  shed ! 

O  gentle  brow  of  rarely  templed  thought, 

Avails  it  now  to  breathe  o'er  thee  this  pain  ? 
Hath  thy  soul,  casements  whose  deep  stillness  caught 
The  radiance  of  strange  hours  that  pale  and  wane, 
Till  one  might  deem  their  marble  chaplets,  not 
The  flowers  a  sculptor  wrought  ? 


Speak,  I  would  say  to  thee,  but  that  I  fear 

I  could  not  bear  this  weight  of  yearning  ;  then 


232  LAMENT    OF 

Too  dear  thou  should'st  become,  too  doubly  dear — 
And  such  a  prince  of  woe,  my  Lord  of  men  ! 

How  could  I  bear  it,  so  ? — this  life  apart, 
With  but  the  voiceful  linger  of  thy  breath 

On  some  chance  hour — thine  eyes  fire  all  my  heart, 
Till  day  is  misery  and  night  is  death  ! 

Alas  !  that  I  might  say,  wake  not  this  pain  ! 

My  slumbrous  soul  is  half  contented  now! 
Think !  the  world's  sentence  would  but  call  it  "stain,7' 

My  kiss,  too  happy  on  thy  lover  brow  ! 
And  yet,  pride — falling  from  its  stronger  morn, 

Over  that  altar  of  fair  majesty — 
Would  dare,  in  clustered  roses,  any  thorn 

To  pierce  the  wayward  feet  that  strayed  to  thee  ! 

I  do  believe  thee,  love,  so  kingly  wise, 

Turned  on  me  fondly,  almost  deified ! 
I  do  believe  thee — raised  are  drooping  eyes 

To  question  if,  for  this,  was  love  denied — 
To  question  if,  for  this,  was  love  long  tried  ? 

That  herein  I  may  find  it,  changed,  transposed, 
Life's  marvel  doubted,  till  the  wounded  side, 

All  of  its  mystery  and  truth,  disclosed  ! 

Deity,  doubt,  pain,  life — all  stand  confessed — 
Sorrow,  so  silent  for  its  just  reproof — 

Faith's  late,  sad  surety  that  had  been  blessed, 
Had  it  believed — not  trusting,  stood  aloof ! 

Speak  to  me,  love !     Though  silent,  I  adore  thee  ! 
E'en  when  I  do  not  lift  mine  eyes  to  meet 


LEONORA   D'ESTE.  233 

Thy  looks,  so  veiled  !     0  sacred  shrine  before  me, 
Silence  is  peace — yet,  were  assurance  sweet ! 

Speak  to  me,  then,  when  near  me,  at  some  fall 

Of  night,  upon  the  lonely,  lonely  sea ! 
When  thy  dear  presence  is  so  near  that  all 

Its  majesty  of  stillness  shadeth  me  ! 
Till  I  could  kneel,  in  my  excess  of  feeling 

And  voiceless  happiness,  close  to  thy  side, 
For  the  dumb  answer  of  the  bliss,  revealing 

How  I  had  hoped,  and  had  not  been  denied  ! 


Oh,  I  would  speak  to  tliee  !  Oh  that  I  might ! 

Love,  wilt  thou  hear  me,  in  this  voiceless  pain  ? 
I  am  alone,  and  the  still  pall  of  night 

Is  over  all  things — the  deep,  low  refrain 
Of  spirit  music,  on  the  wandering  wind, 

Haunts  earth's  broken  places,  like  the  thoughts  of 

thee, 
Seeking  for  rest  within  my  heart — to  find, 

Only  the  billows  of  a  troubled  sea ! 
Ah,  dost  thou  make  this  sweet  and  heavy  thought — 

My  heart  already  weary — this  deep  sigh, 
That  finds  its  echo  mid  the  things  unsought, 

Because  of  their  deep  dread  ?     Ah  !  mournfully, 
'Twill  hover  round  thee  ever,*  music  made 

To  thy  soul's  symphony  !     The  unseen  throne 

*  No  power  in  death  can  tear  our  names  apart, 
As  none  in  life  could  rend  thee  from  my  heart. 
Yes,  Leonora,  it  shall  be  our  fate 
To  be  entwined  forever — but  too  late. 

— Byron's  Lament  of  Tasso. 


234  LAMENT    OF 

Of  heaven,  its  bright  splendors  burn  and  fade 

In  lonely  human  hearts,  with  none  to  own  ! 
Oh,  that  thou  wert  near  me !  that  I  might  weep 

Upon  thy  bosom  and  be  not  afraid  ! 
Oh7  then,  methinks,  that  I  could  calmly  sleep, 

And  yet,  the  very  thought's  with  dread  arrayed  ! 
Although  there  is  no  peace  but  in  the  deep 

Of  thy  gentle  eyes, — there,  fond  fancies  lead, 
And  I  am  quiet,  until  time  unbroken 

Wreathes  me  a  garland  till  the  moments  speed 
To  where  falls  the  real,  and  the  fair  token 

Is  borne  away,  where  I  may  see  it  never, 
With  the  lost  life-beats  of  the  heart's  wild  fever  ! 

Oh,  this  is  over  me,  as  mystic  sleep 

That  is  not  earthly  sleep,  nor  earthly  waking, 
Where  voices  whisper  soft,  and  dark  eyes  weep, 

Arid  lips  grow  pearly  o'er  the  heart's  deep  breaking  • 
Though  I  have  said  forget  me,  it  is  well — 

Though  thou  hast  said  forget  me,  as  its  knell, 
That  we  should  never  meet,  and  never  part — 

To  risk  that  anguish,  where  a  tide  may  swell 
Its  surge  of  waves,  to  each  o'er  beating  heart ! 

Full  of  thy  deep,  deep  love — the  waters  wail  ; 
And  so  I  fear  not,  though  it  mournful  be, 

For  in  the  mist  that  shrouds  thee,  like  a  vail, 
I  see  my  Lord's  hand  raised  o'er  Galilee ; 

"And  then  I  know,"  He  said, "that  this  should  be  !'? 
But  when  thy  voice  told  me  I  should  forget, 

And  thy  dear  hand  had  silenced  hope's  sweet  key, 
I  hushed  the  thrill  that  murmured  with  regret, 


LEONOBA   D'ESTE.  235 

And  made  my  soul  obey  thee,  silently ! 
But  oft  it  waked  with  haunting  voices  fraught, 
That  whispered  e'er  of  thee  Forget  me  not ! 

Thou  wert  not  doomed  to  ever  be  forgot — 

Yet,  didst  thou  say  to  me  a  low  good-bye, 
With  trembling  words  whose  meaning  was  unsought 

Of  the  sweet  spirit  in  thy  heart  and  eye  ! 
And  thou  didst  leave  me  with  a  last  look  taken, 

Like  that,  the  soul  doth  take  in  changing  dreams 
Vainly  to  realize  I  was  forsaken — 

And  yet,  I  was  remembered  as  the  streams 
That  trill  their  mournful  music  on  the  ear, 

All  listless,  lying  where  the  woodland  teems 
With  unblessed  words  of  mysteries  as  fair 

As  the  soul  of  the  dreamer  lying  there  ! 
But  I  was  happy — heavy  though  it  were 

To  dwell  on  earth,  of  thy  dear  love  unblessed — 
For  haunting  melodies  gave  promise  rare, 

And  light  in  thy  dear  eyes,  I  ne'er  had  guessed^ 
When  all  earth's  shadows  shall  in  quiet  rest, 

Morning  and  night,  upon  each  pulseless  breast ! 

I  dreamed  of  thee,  methought  a  temple  fair 

Was  o'er  us,  and  its  lighted  aisles   were  teeming, 
And  pale  and  sad  thou  wert,  lone  standing  there, 

In  a  dense  throng,  but  to  my  fond  eyes,  seeming, 
Noble  in  proud  grace,  as  I  know  thou  art ! 

How  trembled  my  glad  heart  even  in  dreaming7 
As  a  rose-cloud  at  eve,  that  zephyrs  part ! 

Thou  didst  not  see  me,  in  the  crowded  maze 


236  LAMENT    OF 

Where  stood  so  many  whom  I  did  not  know  ; 

Soon  fire  swept  round  us,  and  the  fearful  blaze 
Undermined  the  frail  timbers  neath  our  feet: 

Then  seeing  all  my  danger — the  great  woe 
That  swept  thy  fair  brow,  to  my  heart,  was  sweet ! 

No  word  thy  pale  lip  passed — a  silent  look 
Gave  me  alone  the  meaning  of  its  sorrow, 

But  though  the  hope  of  life  my  heart  forsook — 
Knowing  that  night  of  fire  would  have  no  morrow, 

Born  of  that  hopelessness — thy  faithful  love, 
That  look  of  thine — a  life  might  never  prove ! 

I  did  not  perish,  and  I  tried  to  win  thee, 
And  rocked  my  feet  upon  the  swaying  pile; 

But  many  glided  in  the  throng  between  thee 
And  where  lone  I  stood,  gazing  down  the  aisle 

My  eyes  still  saw  thy  sweet,  pale  lips  compressed, 
I  wakened,  yearning  for  thy  silent  breast ! 

Why  did  I  look  upon  thy  radiant  brow  ? 

Though  so  blest  my  eyes,  gazing  on  its  light ; 
But  weeping  bitterly,  my  heart's  voice  low 

Then  claimed  from  me  some  lost,  forgotten  right ! 
I  dare  not  think  or  feel  what  this  may  be, 

Life's  hope  and  death's  indifference  lie  there, 
A  lonely  wreck  upon  a  drifting  sea — 

To  look  on  its  abyss,  I  do  not  dare : 
Oh,  let  me  strive  while  linger  hope  and  prayer  ? 

I  could  not  see  my  God!  for  oh,  I  fear, 
There  is  a  cave  rock-bound,  which  he  forgot, 

Where  the  mad  surges  lash  the  rocks  so  drear. 
That  chaos  dirges  ever — "He  is  not!" 


LEONORA    D'ESTE.  237 

Oh,  I  dare  not  listen — I  turn  away  ! 
No  rest,  no  rest !  for  hand,  or  foot,  or  heart ! 

Turmoil  and  strife  must  ever  be  their  sway ! 
I  ask,  ye  winds,  which  gains  the  victor's  part  ? 

Eternal  life,  or  Lethe's  unseen  deep  ? 
Ye  moan  and  mourn,  but  still  ye  answer  not — 

Still  unrevealed,  that  pale  and  mystic  sleep  ! 
Shall  the  heart's  beatings  be  all  then  forgot  ? 

Oh,  no  !  I  cannot  give  them  up ! — their  love 
Is  all  too  torturing — too  thrilling  sweet ! 

Their  living  restless  throes  immortal  prove 
The  soul  that  makes  the  heart  thus  wildly  beat ! 

Oh,  I  remember  when  my  proud  heart  reigned, 

Like  an  immortal  dove,  within  my  breast, 
But  struggling  long,  her  heavy  wing  hath  strained, 

Since  o'er  the  waves,  long  sought — no  place  of  rest! 
A  passionate  appeal  I  make  to  thee — 

Should  that  deep  moment  come,  when  all  soul-worn 
Dark  waters  may  come  rushing  over  me  ! 

Oh?  give  me  death  with  that  sweet  peace  whose 

morn 
Will  rise  in  unknown  splendor  o'er  the  sea ! 

Hide  me  in  its  waves,  ere  the  night  of  scorn 
Set  ever  round  me  by  one  look  from  thee  ! 

When  my  eyes  close  upon  thy  bosom's  deep, 
Kiss  them,  forever,  to  eternal  sleep ! 


For  thy  love's  sake,  Tasso,  for  thy  love  burning, 
And  for  the  closed  behests  of  waiting  years, 


238  LAMENT    OF 

Kept  in  the  patience  of  a  tried  heart  mourning, 
Under  the  arches  of  its  quenchless  tears  ! 

Think  of  me,  darling,  when  thy  soul's  deep  hushes 
Grow  wakeful  in  the  light  of  some  slow  hour 

Between  the  midnight  and  the  opal  gushes, 
When  the  dawn  pleads  with  night  and  day  for  power! 

Think  of  me,  darling,  in  the  clime  divided 

From  spring  and  summer,  where  glad  tides  ne'er 
come, 

And  say,  "Ah,  me !  sweet  heart,  from  mine  elided, 
I  love  thee  yet,  my  love,  though  grief  is  dumb  ! 

When  thou  art  silent,  for  the  sharp  precision 
Of  catching  some  deep  memory  gliding  by, 

Perhaps,  dear  love,  such  is  my  hour  of  vision, 
Thy  spirit  comes  so  near,  and  says,  "  'Tis  I ! " 

Believe  me,  darling,  when  thy  gladness,  paling, 
Seems  more  than  weary,  like  a  mournful  river, 

The  curse-born  Eden  of  the  unavailing 

Thinks  of  the  gates  again,  where  angels  shiver  ! 

Take  them,  the  roses,  on  the  lone  heath  blowing, 
And  put  them  where  thy  breast  is  wrarm  and  white, 

And    when  they  die  there,    love,    thou  mayst   be 

knowing 
They're  but  sweet  allegories  of  a  blight ! 

Thou'lt  find  the  passion  of  thy  lips  which  break 
Upon  their  leaves,  and  pulsing,  beat  apart 

With  thrills  of  thy  soft  breath,  as  when  a  lake 
Is  stirred,  as  once  you  said,  was  stirred  my  heart ! 


LEOXOKED'ESTE.  239 

Near  where  we  stood,  the  dark,  full  summer-boughs 
Met  over  us  in  arches  green  and  grand: 

I  was  forgetful  of  the  wasting  glows 

That  burued  their  life  within  thy  cheek  and  hand  ! 

Sweet  censers,  whence  no  earth  may  gather  blame 

Or  spirit  meaning,  any  fire  of  dust  — 
The  stone  was  rolled  away,  ere  morning  came, 

And  watchers  stood  appalled  before  their  trust  ! 

What  care  that  nothing  shelters  my  lone  head 
From  falls  of  dew  that  damp  each  heavy  tress, 

Whose  temples  fail  to  coolness,  that  were  fed 
To  fever  by  thy  glances'  tenderness  ! 

My  feet  were  in  the  dust  that  should  be  sere, 

Over  this  head,  ere  heard  those  words  of  thine  — 

How  near  tliy  heart  was,  yet,  "He  had  not  where 
To  lay  his  head"  —  earth  and  heaven  his  shrine  ! 

What  care,  then,  if  the  barren  surge  were  spread 
Over  me  dirgeless,  still,  without  thy  voice 

To  break  the  turbid  waste  where  tempests  shed 
Their  wrath's  vain   triumph  o'er  that  one  sweet 
choice  ! 

Oh,  mind  me  not  !  though  o'er  my  head  no  cover 
From  winds  and  stars;  tell  me  no  more  because 

A  soft  warm  hand,  in  seeming,  falleth  over 
A  forehead  claimless  —  a  dear  hand  that  was  ! 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


240  LAMENT    OF 

I  dared  its  touch :  tliy  hand,  I  reached'  for  it, 

Fearing  the  glow,  the  pressures  deep,  strong  thrill! 

And  yet,  would  God,  it  held  me  infinite, 

Through  every  pulsing  tribute  of  Life's  will  ! 

In  day-spring,  dreams  burn  oft  for  thee,  and  ever, 
It  seems,  as  thou  art  bending  o'er  me  here ! 

Thy  mouth's  intense  sweet  sigh,  its  flush  of  fever — 
And,  oh  !  the  arms,  that  draw  me,  near  and  near  ! 

Alas  !  wild  dream,  and  heart  of  wild  unrest — 

Loose  life,  I  pray  thee,  from  between  thy  throes — 

My  lover !  0  my  lover !  on  thy  breast, 

Pain,  blame,  and  rapture  could  their  bonds  unclose! 

Too  well  I  know  thee,  vain,  deep-kindling  thought — 
In  thy  devotedness  I'm  doomed  to  be, 

Like  the  coral  fane  Nereides  wrought, 
A  templed  labor,  and  an  agony  ! 

Forget  me  then,  forget  that  tortured  wail, 
That  mirage  of  regret,  that  rose  afar — 

For  it  the  isle  of  founts  hath  no  avail, 

Nor  plumes  of  peace,  nor  light  of  vesper  star  ! 

Take  them  away  !  O  infinite  sweet  tone 

Keep  thee,  till  soft  grass  bendeth  in  the  spring, 

Over  me  lowly,  light,  and  windward  blow — 

Then   say,    ''Dear   head,  thou'rt  crowned    with 
everything ! JJ 

Oh,  be  not  sad,  if  never  more  again 

By  soft-winged  verse  or  sign,  thy  love  I  move  ! 
Too  much  to  weep,  and  suffer — its  refrain, 
To  suffer  and  to  weep — this  were  to  love  ! 


LEOXOEA    D'ESTE.  241 


Too  much  of  tears  and  strife  would  be  its  cost, 
Till  heart  on  heart,  their  quest  fall  tremblingly, 

To  break,  to  beat,  till  heav'n  and  peace  were  lost — 
This  cross  is  veiled,  beloved  !    So  let  it  be  ! 


Farewell,  my  dearest!  hush  thy  loving  heart, 
Whose  silver  lyre  is  beating  that  bright  shore, 

Beyond  my  heart's  low  sigh,  where  deep  winds  start, 
And  bear  the  soft  waves  to  the  strand  once  more  ! 

How  can  I  bear  it — all  the  dark,  deep  meaning 
That  droops  beside  thy  spirit  ?     Had  it  been 

In  the  white  flush  of  young  life's  bright  beginning, 
Ere  blame  had  scorched  it,  or  name  called  it  sin  ! 

Thy  soul's  sweet  whisper  through  my  being,  sweeping, 
The  anthem  that  on  life  is  longest,  deepest — 

Oh,  had  it  been  before  the  time  of  weeping, 
Ere  thou,  this  dumb  regret,  in  vigil,  keepest ! 

How  had  my  heart  not  stopped  to  fear  or  ponder, 
How  had  it  then,  unbound,  knelt  at  thine  own, 

Learning  the  colors  in  thine  eyes'  sweet  wonder, 
And  gathering  life's  deep  joy  from  one  sweet  tone  ! 

How  had  I  loved  thee,  as  thou  shouldst  be  loved  ! 

How  had  I  waited  for  each  doubtful  thrill — 
That  glance,  or  voice,  or  touch  of  thine  had  proved, 

Through  all  the  glad  life,  at  thy  strong  life's  will ! 


242  STAE    OF    THE   SEA, 

How  had  the-troublous  heart,  o'erful  with  yearning, 
Been  given,  beat  by  beat,  beneath  thy  breast — 

A  tide  gone  seaward,  to  its  deep  returning, 

The  while  thine  eyes,  like  stars,  beheld  me  blest ! 

But  hush,  O  heart,  before  the  thought  thou  darest, 
And  count  the  links  of  chains  and  steps  of  time; 

But  do  not  count  the  heart-beats,  which  thou  fearest. 
And  do  not  call  thy  tenderest  records  crime ! 


STAR  OF  THE  SE/l 


In  whom  I  am  "well  pleased" — the  lone  watch-towers 

Of  Silence,  and  of  Effort's  sweet  surcease- 
Late  hast  thou  lighted  unto  paths  of  Peace, 

Over  the  strong  surf  where  long  hung  dark  hours  ! 

And  now  all  brighter  for  severe  contrast — 

Star  of  the  Sea,  to  whom  my  looks  have  turned, 

Footfalls  of  shepherds,  as  at  first, — at  last, 

"Will  stop,  and  know  wherefore  thy  glory  burned  ! 


ALTSAY    BURN. 


In  the  early  part  of  the  seventeenth  century,  Angus,  eldest  son  of 
the  Glengarry  Chief,  Macdounell,  made  a  foray  into  the  territory 
of  the  Clan  Mackenzie  in  the  frith  of  Beauly,  with  whom  the  Mac- 
donnells  were  at  war;  on  his  way  home  from  the  fatal  expedition 
the  heir  of  Glengarry  was  intercepted  and  slain,  with  several  of 
his  followers,  by  a  party  of  Mackenzies.  To  revenge  his  death,  a 
strong  body  of  Glengarry  men  were  sent  under  Allen  Mac  Kaonuill 
of  Lundy,  who  led  them  immediately  across  the  hills  into  the 
country  of  their  enemies.  Marching  on  Sunday  morning,  and  find 
ing  a  numerous  company  of  the  Mackenzie s  then  at  worship  in  the 
chapel  of  Gillie-Christ,  near  Beauly,  they  set  fire  to  the  church 
and  burned  the  unsuspecting  congregation,  having  previously 
secured  every  aperture  of  escape.  Lips  on  which  the  orison  was 
unfinished,  now  gave  vent  to  the  wildest  shrieks  of  despair.  Over 
the  crackling,  devouring  flames  and  the  shrieks  of  the  victims, 
could  be  heard  the  shrill  notes  of  the  pibroch  in  malicious  triumph, 
and  the  horrible  sights  and  sounds  were  only  darkened  and  silenc 
ed  by  the  ashes  of  the  funeral  pile.  When  all  was  over  the  atro 
cious  perpetrators  retired  from  the  scene,like  troops  after  a  victory, 
enjoying  the  dastardly  satisfaction  of  having  avenged  their  wrong. 
But  the  flames,  by  which  the  Maekenzies  suffered,  served  as  the 
gathering  beacon  to  the  clan;  every  man  who  could  bear  a  sword 
now  drew  it  forth  and  rushed  to  the  pursuit,  dividing  their  forces 
into  two  bodies,  one  following  the  track  along  the  south  side  of 
Loch-Ness,  while  the  other,  crossing  the  mountains,  on  the  north 
bank  of  the  lake,  pursued  the  first  division  of  the  Macdonnells 
under  their  leader,  Mac  Eaonuill.  Stimulated  by  revenge  they  con 
tinued  the  chase  without  intermission,  and  at  length  overtook  the 
guilty  fugitives  near  Altsay  Burn,  where  they  ventured  to  halt  for 
rest.  The  hostile  clans  mutually  fatigued,  but  still  burning  with 
hate,  rushed  on  each  other  with  deadly  rancor,  and  for  a  time  the 


244  ALTSAY    BUKN. 

conflict  was  desperately  even,  but  at  length  the  Macdonnells  were 
driven  into  the  burn,  or  torrent,  where  many  of  them  missing  the 
ford,  and  impeded  by  the  rugged  rocks  of  the  channel,  were 
overtaken  and  slain  by  the  Mackenzies.  Mac  Raonuill,  a  man  of 
athletic  frame  took  a  desperate  leap  and  cleared  the  abyss,  landing 
safely  on  the  opposite  bank.  One  of  the  Mackenzies  swift  in  pur 
suit,  leaped  blindly,  reckless  of  the  danger,  after  him.  The  des 
perate  venture  of  the  daring  pursuer  failed;  his  feet  falling  short 
of  the  bank,  he  met  with  the  tragic  end  as  described.  But  the 
worsted  party  of  the  Macdonnells  who  had  figured  so  remorselessly 
in  the  burning  of  the  church  that  morning,  were  not,  for  all  that> 
suffered  to  escape;  they  now  fled  by  Inverness  but  were  surprised 
in  a  public  house  by  the  other  detachment  of  the  Mackenzies,  who 
made  sure  of  their  prey,  surrounded  the  house,  secured  the  doors 
and  setting  fire  to  the  thatch,  the  flames  burst  forth  in  an  instant. 
Thirty-seven  of  the  Macdonnells  did  penance  for  their  vicious  pro 
ceedings  of  the  morning.  Such  was  the  raid  of  Gillie-Christ,. 
or  Christ- Church,  and  the  speedy  retribution  by  which  it  was 
followed. — See  Beatie's  Illustrated  Scotland. 


I. 

*HOSE  side  with  flowery  garlands  hung, 

Whose  winds  with  Ossian's  harp  had  sung- 
"Whose  dense,  dark  birch,  the  bottoms  line, 
With  purple  heath  and  feathery  pine, 
Made  beautiful — whose  gray  rocks  rise 
In  the  repose  of  sunset  skies : 
— The  azure,  light-incumbent  sky, 
Beached  unto,  as  by  Alps  as  high, 
Where  straggling  falls  the  knotty  ash 
From  storm-reft  ledges  with  a  crash  : 
Where  footsteps  pause  to  seek  return — 
This  is  the  gorge  of  Altsay  burn, 
Not  all  whose  beauty  here  I  tell, 
But  mark  this  much  for  what  befell  I 


ALTSAY    BURN.  245 

II. 

Glengarry's  chief  held  Angus  dear, 
The  eldest  son,  Macdounell's  heir, 
The  foray's  leader,  when  the  clan 
Fought  with  Mackenzies — man  to  man  : 
— Angus  was  tall  and  strong,  they  say, 
As  Coromandel's  lithe  Palmae, 
And  fearless  as  the  stag  whose  leap 
Is  sure,  or  else — the  death  that's  deep. 

in. 

The  dews  were  light  on  Gillie- Christ, 
And  Janet  Lyle's  soft  step  the  least 
Of  many  gentle  sounds  that  made 
Her  quick  and  venturous  heart  afraid : 
But  there  was  Angus  coming  near, 
"With  smiles  and  words  to  calm  her  fear ! 
She  loved  the  chief,  Glengarry's  son, 
And  he  loved  her — that  love  was  one — 
With  graves  whereon  they  stood  that  hour 
Of  omen,  with  the  moonlit  flower; 
With  all  things  deep  and  sad — with  things 
Whose  timid  promise  never  brings 
The  olive  from  the  dove's  wet  wings. 

IV. 

Home  from  the  foray's  cheered  success, 
Macdonells  turned,  their  band  not  less ; 
Mackenzies,  in  the  Beauly  firth, 
Defeated,  knew  their  valor's  worth, 
But  swore  with  vengeance-bated  breath, 


246  ALTS  AY    BUKN. 

To  track  young  Angus  to  his  death  , 
Whose  proud  young  steps  did  homeward  turn — 
They  never  came  to  Altsay  burn  ! 
The  hill  was  steep,  the  foe's  strong  hand 
Had  signal  tryst  of  all  his  band, 
And  cutting  through  the  faithful  ring, 
That  round  a  chief  in  clamor  cling, — 
With  stubborn  rage,  deep  wrath  was  hushed  ; 
With  eyes  that  flamed,  and  cheek  that  flushed, 
They  closed  and  clenched  in  deadly  grasp  ! 
In  silence,  Angus — Donald's  gasp 
Was  muttered,  cursing,  and — a  minute, 
Had  all  the  fate  of  either  in  it ! 
Then  Angus,  with  unplaided  throat, 
Turned  faceward,  saying,  ere  'twas  smote, 
"  There,  Donald  Lyle,  when  I  am  slain, 
Tell  her  I  would  do  this  again  !  " 

Y. 

That  day  a  lametation  rose. 
Glengarry's  vales  echoed  their  woes, 
And  rugged  hearts,  where  grief  was  hard, 
Pledged  Clan  Mackenzie  sure  reward. 
Gather  !  Gather  !  from  every  hill, 
Rang  out,  to  Allen  Mac  Kaonuill, — 
The  Lord  of  Lundy  Leading  them 
Across  the  hills,  whence  late  they  came, 
Well-favored,  marching  under  night 
On  to  the  scene  of  speedy  blight: 
They  reached  it  when  the  Sunday  sun 
With  chapel  service  had  begun  ; 


ALTSAY    BURN.  247 

Then  lighter  grew  each  footstep's  beat, 
And  whiter  grew  each  cheek's  white  heat ; 
The  distant  twittering  of  a  bird, 
Could  far  on  the  birch-branch  be  heard — 
The  sacred  walls  of  orison 
Let  no  sight  seen  of  anyone — 
The  sacred  sound  of  prayer  within 
Made  little  note  of  outside  din — 
Till  all  surrounded  it  was  held 
At  door  and  window  sentineled  : 
And  then — the  very  heart  recoils, — 
The  red  brands  blaze  around  their  spoils 
To  seething  flames — the  claymore's  clash 
Falls  quickly,  where  the  foremost's  rash 
In  efforts  to  escape  despair, 
With  cursing  shriek  or  pleading  pray'r, 
The  gasping  breath,  no  more  recalled — 
All  make  the  mind  shrink  back  appalled; 
And  while  the  victims,  tortured,  die, 
The  Pibroch's  shrill  note  heard  on  high, 
With  ghastly  triumph  made  each  death 
A  mockery  in  its  mingled  breath — 
Of  child  and  mother,  man  and  man, 
But  few  were  left  Mackenzie's  clan. 

VI. 

But,  in  their  turn,  those  few  soon  blent 
To  mustered  strength  with  dire  intent ; 
And,  tracking  dastard  steps,  took  heed 
Of  twofold  slaughter's  double  deed  : 
Dividing  forces,  two  and  two, 


248  ALTS  AY    BURN'. 

One,  followed  all  the  southside  through, 
Whose  longest  chase  was  over,  when 
MacdonrielPs  halted  in  the  glen : 
Then  both  the  clans,  though  fainting,  burned 
With  hot  revenge,  each  deadly  turned 
Upon  the  other's  rancorous  wrath— 
Their  dead  were  mingled  in  their  path- — 
Their  mutual  fury,  strength  of  arm, 
And  swiftness  kept  an  even  charm  : 
At  length  Macdonnell's  numbers,  less, 
Were  driven  in  their  last  distress 
To  the  wild  torrent's  rugged  side — 
In,  tumbled,  or  were  hurled,  and  died ! 

VII. 

Mac  RaonuilPs  strong,  athletic  frame, 

Held  longest  to  his  valor's  fame  ; 

And,  having  made  his  flight  the  best 

To  where  the  torrent  tensely  pressed — 

A  narrow  chasm — death  to  miss — - 

He  meant  to  leap  the  dread  abyss  : 

While  hot  pursued,  he  took  a  glance — 

The  depth,  the  breadth,  the  desperate  chance — 

And  blind  with  danger,  fierce  with  hope, 

With  venture  he  would  dare  to  cope : 

Success  ?     Oh  heavens  !  his  sure  foot 

Is  safe  ! — Mackenzie  in  pursuit — 

With  less  of  strength  and  length  of  limb, 

And  less  of  the  wild  stag  in  him — 

Leaps  after,  falling  short — the  brink 

Grown  sapling  in  his  grasp  must  shrink ! 


His  life  hangs  clinging  to  its  bough — 
What  hope  ?    Shall  malice  spare  him  now  ?  " 

Page  249.— Stanza  VII. 


ALTSAY    BURN.  249 

His  life  hangs  clinging  to  its  bough — 
What-hope?     Shall  malice  spare  him  now? 
Mac  Eaonuill  turned — the  dangling  foe 
Looked  upward,  in  his  eyes  death's  woe, 
But  on  his  proud  lip  not  a  word 
Of  suppliance,  Mac  Haonuill  heard  ! 
Mac  Eaonuill,  coming  nearer  took 
His  dirk,  with  fiendish  smile,  and  struck 
The  sapling,  saying,  "  Take  that  too  ! 
Fve  given  much,  to  day,  to  you  !  " 


AND  MURILLO. 


A  story  is  told  of  Murillo,  which,  finely  illustrates  his  power  of 
truth  and  genius  in  sundering  the  bonds  of  adverse  circumstances. 
Murillo  had  a  mulatto  slave,  whom  he  employed  in  grinding  his 
colors  and  performing  the  menial  services  of  his  studio.  The  stu 
dents  were  sometimes  annoyed  at  finding  their  work  had  been  med 
dled  with  when  they  entered  the  studio  in  the  morning ;  and  as  the 
touches,  which  their  pictures  received  through  the  night,  were 
superior  to  their  own,  they  superstitiously  believed  that  some 
supernatural  agency  was  at  work,  and  they  charged  the  mulatto, 
who  slept  in  the  studio,  to  keep  strict  watch.  This  he  promised 
to  do;  but  what  was  their  surprise,  one  morning,  on  observing  a 
head  of  Venus,  which  their  master  had  left  upon  his  easel  uufin- 
shed,  completely  perfected,  and  in  a  style  superior  to  anything 
iMurillo  had  ever  done.  The  master  was  astonished,  and  charged 
his  pupils  with  meddling  with  his  work.  This  they  all  positively 
denied;  and  poor  Tortesa,  the  mulatto,  was  sternly  commanded  to 
tell  all  that  had  passed  in  the  studio  during  his  nightwatchings. 
At  first,  the  terrified  boy  was  silent;  but  at  last  he  fell  upon  his 
knees,  begged  his  master's  pardon,  and  confessed  that  the  work 
was  his  own.  He  had  heard  the  instructions  given  to  the  pupils, 
and  profited  by  them,  unobserved.  In  a  moment  the  countenance 
of  Murillo  was  changed,  and  lifting  up  the  astonished  boy,  he  charg 
ed  him  to  ask  any  favor,  and  it  should  be  granted.  Tortesa  trem 
bled,  half  doubting  the  sincerity  of  his  master;  but  at  last  he  found 
courage  to  say,  "The  liberty  of  my  father."  This  was  granted, 
but  death  early  closed  the  career  of  him  who  gave  such  exalted  evi 
dence  of  genius.  —  See  Lossing's  Fine  Arts. 

[ORTESA  ground  the  colors  for  Murillo; 

Tortesa  was  a  boy — a  gold  mulatto— 
A  genius7  fervid  as  thy  heart,  0  billow  ! 
A  tryst  with  thy  forever,  0  Tallatta ! 


TOBTESA    AND  MUEILLO.  251 

The  students  wearing  robes  made  note  but  lightly 

Of  him — his  menial  service,  dutiful: 
Fair  days  were  passing,  and  with  sunsets  brightly, 

Italian  studios  were  beautiful. 

For  long  the  students  wondered  in  the  morning, 
What  hand,  with  perfect  touch  their  pictures  made 

Superior — some  grace  of  new  adorning, 
Put  over,  like  a  star,  where  <XXE  was  laid. 

They  said  unto  each  other,  "something  surely 
Worketh,  in  watchful  night  with  perfect  skill, 

This  mystery;  for  done  most  fair  and  purely, 
These  lovely  things  beyond  our  own  good  will." 

And  then,  one  said:  uTortesa,  here  thou  sleepest  ! 

Arise  to-night,  and  watch,  and  hold  thy  peace, 
And  see  who  cometh  when  the  hour  is  deepest  !7' 

Tortesa  watched — the  still  stars  of  Venice, 

He  saw  the  master's  work — a  head  of  Venus, 
Not  half  complete,  when  left  the  night  before : 

His  trust  was  deep,  as  sweet  wells  in  Salinas, 
His  heart  struck,  like  a  dipped  gondola  oar. 

Murillo,  seeing  at  the  morn  'twas  added 
To  things  made  perfect,  said:  "I  charge  you  all ! 

Which  one  will  own  to  this  ?  "  Then  some  evaded, 
And  some  denied, 'on  some  did  silence  fall. 

Till,  lo !  the  silent  slave,  sternly  commanded, 
Knelt  down,  confessing  with  a  bended  face: 

"I  heard  thee,  at  closed  doors,  holding,  faint  handed, 
My   heart,   near   where   thy   words   had  pleasant 
ways  !  " 


252  SISTER    MARY  AGNES. 

"Ah  !  didst  thou?"  said  Murillo:     "Ask  some  favor, 
While  holding  thee  to  heart,  I  love  and  hold  ! 

Where  utmost  is  my  hope,  thy  least  endeavor 
Falleth,  like  Indus  waters,  over  gold  !  "    ^ 

Tortesa,  looking  up,  half  doubting,  trembled; 

But  finding  courage,  said  the  words  that  live, 

Long  understood,  where  e'er,  wherein  dissembled  : 

father's  liberty,  0  Master,  give  !  " 


SISTER  MARY  AGNES, 


Mary  Agnes,  her  cloister  name— 
^^  A  nun,  with  large  blue  eyes,  transparent  hands : 
She  sat  with  us ;  the  white-clad  windows'  flame, 

Across  the  school-room  floor,  laid  sunlight  wands  ; 
And  sometimes,  when  the  noontide  hour  was  still, 

And  lull  of  lessons  came,  or  humming  task 
Made  more  monotonous  the  effort's  will, 

We  wondered  why  she  stopped-we  dared  not  ask- 
With  shading  hand  she  covered  her  blue  eyes, 

Leaned  slightly  her  veiled  head  j  to  our  replies 
From  reading  classes,  took  no  note, — did  seem 

Abstracted,  musing — did  she  pray  or  dream  ? 
I  used  to  wonder,  I,  a  little  girl, 

That  time, with  cheek  and  brow  shell-rose  and  pearl. 


SISTER    MARY  AGNES.  253 

To-day  is  Springtide — many  later  years  ! 

Perhaps,  like  the  caged  bird,  glad  of  release, 
Long  since  to  her,  there  came  a  death  of  Peace  ; 

I  think  I  see  her  folding  in  her  sleeves, 
Her  delicate,  fine  hands  enclasped  and  thin, 

And  through  her  smiles  there  shown  some  light  of 

tears, 
And  since,  IVe  learned  to  tell  the  smile  that  grieves  ; 

Remembering  her  glance  as  what  hath  been, 
When  with  a  soft  foot  stayed,  she. looked  on  me — 

Longest  a  little — ah  !  what  did  she  see  ? 
Perhaps,  some  prophecy  her  heart  could  tell, 

And  one  day  she  said  something — all  is  well ! 

« 
o  a  9  o  e 

Through  all  the  long  years,  I  remember  her, 

A  being  of  my  childhood's  mysteries — 
A  dweller  in  new  lands — o'er  traversed  seas; 

To-day,  the  hills  were  blue — the  heavens  still; 
A  leaflet  on  the  maples  did  not  stir, 

I  laid  my  hands  across  my  face — what  will 
Of  mine  brought  back  to  thought  a  shading  hand  ? 

I  would  not  say  I  know,  or  understand — 
I  would  not  say,  I  saw  it  for  a  sign, 

So  long  since  an  unconscious  Constantine  ! 


254  A  PHILOSOPHIC  ASSURANCE. 


PHILOSOPHIC  ASSUAGE. 


Druggist  was  sleeping  quite  soundly  one  night, 

When  a  rapping  came  loud  at  the  door  : 
His  wife,  like  the  miller,  awakened  outright, 
As  he  suddedly  stopped  in  a  snore. 

In  no  even  temper,  until  his  return, 

She  lay  still,  and  then  grumbling,  she  said : 

'Tray  what  did  you  sell,  that  its  profits  could  earn 
Your  arising  just  now  from  your  .bed  ?  " 

"A  hap'orth  of  salts  !  In  good  truth  I  should  think 
That  your  profits  are  small  on  that  dose, 

For  though  sleep,  to  your  eyes,  may  gradually  wink, 
Yet  an  hoar  may  elapse  ere  mine  close  !  " 

"Be  comforted,  wife,"  the  man  amiably  said  ; 

"And  well  balanced  content  cultivate  : 
You're  tangling  just  now  your  own  destiny's  thread, 

But  view,  also,  this  other  man's  state  !  " 

"While  telling  me  now  that  my  profits  are  small, 
Getting  up,  as  you  say,  a  point  stronger — 

But  think,  my  dear  wife,  as  you're  thinking  at  all, 
That  the  salts  will  keep  him  up  much  longer !  1? 


THE    "BEEfl  SWILL." 


THE  "BEEf[  SWILL," 


Paris  has  her  "Sans  Culottes:"  Naples  her  "Lazzaroni;"  and 
San  Francisco  her  "Beer  Swills."  The  last  cognomen  is  not  so 
euphonious  as  the  French  or  Italian,  but  it  is  not  less  significant 
of  a  special  class.  Though  not  so  numerous  as  those  of  the  Euro 
pean  cities,  we  are  not  behind-hand  in  the  quality  of  originality. 

The  "Beer  Swill"  proper,  is  only  genuine  in  the  neighborhood 
of  "Tar  Flat,"  although  diversified  specimens  may  be  found  in  va 
rious  other  quarters .  The  particular  individual  who  inspired  the 
following  lines,  could  be  daily  seen  arising  from  just  such  a  spot 
under  the  wooden  sidewalk,  and  bearing  his  straw  pallet  to  the  ad 
jacent  lot,  under  the  morning  sun,  while  he  meandered  away  to 
the  nearest  beer-kegs  that  were  left  outside  the  night  before. 

Occasionall}',  a  comrade  might  be  seen,  arm  in  arm  with  him, 
jn  social  chat;  and  together,  their  ragged  elbows  and  unwashed 
faces  might  have  eclipsed  even  Diogenes  himself. 


t 

glints  of  sun  on  soft  acacia  boughs, 
jf     The  laugh  of  children  down  the  sunny  street, 
The  rustling  flowret  of  the  Autumn  throws 
Its  last  sweet  beauty  at  the  passer's  feet  : 
It  may  be,  he's  a  ''keghouse  vagrant,"  risen 
From  underneath  the  sidewalk  where  he  lay; 
That  ragged  thing  there  is  his  bed  of  hay — 
Except  occasionally  when  he's  in  prison — 
He  leaves  it  out  to  air  it  every  day. 

What  distant  ivy  leaves,  what  sleepy  stream, 
What  ring  of  happy  voices  now  ne'er  heard, 
What  fluttering  bright  wing  of  a  captured  bird, 


256  THE  "BEER    SWILL." 

Did  stir  last  night  in  his  uneasy  dream  ? 

Ah,  sounding  bells  !  afar,  from  distant  shade, 

Thy  spell,  a  thought  of  childhood's  home,  hath  made. 

He's  vacant  looking  with  an  ugly  mug; 
His  sole  possession  is  an  empty  can, 
No  doubt,  at  first  it  was  a  handsome  jug, 
But  this  is  now  to  what  his  fortune  ran : — 
The  bees  still  murmur  in  the  distant  hives, 
And  flower  and  stream  are  in  the  woody  glade, 
But,  somehow,  he  has  come  on  harder  times, 
A  trembling  wanderer  and  grown  afraid; 
He  lets  none  see  the  silent  tear  that  drops — 
But  keeps  his  eye  upon  the  nearest  "cops," 


